t this Jovian
intaglio. He seemed to have read--whether in books, or in paragraphs in
mechanical magazines--a good deal about geology. He made it real. Not
that she paid much attention to what he actually said! She was too busy
thinking of the fact that he should say it at all.

Not condescendingly but very companionably she accompanied Milt in the
exploration of their camp for the night--the big dining tent, the city
of individual bedroom tents, canvas-sided and wooden-floored, each with
a tiny stove for the cold mornings of these high altitudes. She was awed
that evening by hearing her waitress discussing the novels of Ibanez.
Jeff Saxton knew the names of at least six Russian novelists, but Jeff
was not highly authoritative regarding Spanish literature.

"I suppose she's a school-teacher, working here in vacation," Claire
whispered to Milt, beside her at the long, busy, scenically
conversational table.

"Our waitress? Well, sort of. I understand she's professor of literature
in some college," said Milt, in a matter of fact way. And he didn't at
all see the sequence when she went on:

"There is an America! I'm glad I've found it!"

The camp's evening bonfire was made of logs on end about a stake of
iron. As the logs blazed up, the guests on the circle of benches crooned
"Suwanee River," and "Old Black Joe," and Claire crooned with them. She
had been afraid that her father would be bored, but she saw that, above
his carefully tended cigar, he was dreaming. She wondered if there had
been a time when he had hummed old songs.

The fire sank to coals. The crowd wandered off to their tents. Mr.
Boltwood followed them after an apologetic, "Good night. Don't stay up
too late." With a scattering of only half a dozen people on the benches,
this huge circle seemed deserted; and Claire and Milt, leaning forward,
chins on hands, were alone--by their own campfire, among the mountains.

The stars stooped down to the hills; the pines were a wall of blackness;
a coyote yammered to point the stillness; and the mighty pile of coals
gave a warmth luxurious in the creeping mountain chill.

The silence of large places awes the brisk intruder, and Claire's voice
was unconsciously lowered as she begged, "Tell me something about
yourself, Mr. Daggett. I don't really know anything at all."

"Oh, you wouldn't be interested. Just Schoenstrom!"

"But just Schoenstrom might be extremely interesting."

"But honest, you'd think I was--ed