o each other, as
if they were strangers, or as if strangers were by. They talked of the
landscape, and of the strange cloud effect before them. They said that
they supposed they should see the Lion's Head when the cloud lifted, and
they were both sure they had never been quite so near a cloud before.
They agreed that this was because in Switzerland the mountains were so
much higher and farther off. Then the daughter said, without changing
the direction of her eyes or the tone of her voice, "The gentleman who
came over from the station with us last night," and the mother was aware
of Jeff Durgin advancing toward the corner of the veranda where they
sat.

"I hope you have got rested," he said, with the jovial bluntness which
was characteristic of him with women.

"Oh, yes indeed," said the elder lady. Jeff had spoken to her, but had
looked chiefly at the younger. "I slept beautifully. So quiet here, and
with this delicious air! Have you just tasted it?"

"No; I've been up ever since daylight, driving round," said Jeff. "I'm
glad you like the air," he said, after a certain hesitation. "We always
want to have people do that at Lion's Head. There's no air like it,
though perhaps I shouldn't say so."

"Shouldn't?" the lady repeated.

"Yes; we own the air here--this part of it." Jeff smiled easily down at
the lady's puzzled face.

"Oh! Then you are--are you a son of the house?"

"Son of the hotel, yes," said Jeff, with increasing ease. The lady
continued her question in a look, and he went on: "I've been scouring
the country for butter and eggs this morning. We shall get all our
supplies from Boston next year, I hope, but we depend on the neighbors a
little yet."

"How very interesting!" said the lady. "You must have a great many queer
adventures," she suggested in a provisional tone.

"Well, nothing's queer to me in the hill country. But you see some
characters here." He nodded over his shoulder to where Whitwell stood by
the flag-staff, waiting the morning impulse of the ladies. "There's one
of the greatest of them now."

The lady put up a lorgnette and inspected Whitwell. "What are those
strange things he has got in his hatband?"

"The flowers and the fungi of the season," said Jeff. "He takes
parties of the ladies walking, and that collection is what he calls his
almanac."

"Really?" cried the girl. "That's charming!"

"Delightful!" said the mother, moved by the same impulse, apparently.

"Yes," said Jef