as not an affrighting thing to Helen. It
might stir her sympathies, but it assuredly could not drive her away
in panic.

She went on, not noiselessly, as she did not wish to intrude on some
stranger's misery. Soon she came to a low wall, and, before she
quite realized her surroundings, she was looking into a grass grown
cemetery. It was a surprise, this ambush of the silent company among
the trees. Hidden away from the outer world, and so secluded that its
whereabouts remain unknown to thousands of people who visit the Maloja
each summer, there was an aspect of stealth in its sudden discovery
that was almost menacing. But Helen was not a nervous subject. The
sobbing had ceased, and when the momentary effect of such a depressing
environment had been resolutely driven off, she saw that a rusty iron
gate was open. The place was very small. There were a few monuments,
so choked with weeds and dank grass that their inscriptions were
illegible. She had never seen a more desolate graveyard. Despite the
vivid light and the joyous breeze rustling the pine branches, its air
of abandonment was depressing. She fought against the sensation as
unworthy of her intelligence; but she had some reason for it in the
fact that there was no visible explanation of the mourning she had
undoubtedly heard.

Then she uttered an involuntary cry, for a man's head and shoulders
rose from behind a leafy shrub. Instantly she was ashamed of her fear.
It was the old guide who acted as coachman the previous evening, and
he had been lying face downward on the grass in that part of the
cemetery given over to the unnamed dead.

He recognized her at once. Struggling awkwardly to his feet, he said
in broken and halting German, "I pray your forgiveness, _fraeulein_. I
fear I have alarmed you."

"It is I who should ask forgiveness," she said. "I came here by
accident. I thought I could go to Cavloccio by this path."

She could have hit on no other words so well calculated to bring him
back to every day life. To direct the steps of wanderers in his
beloved Engadine was a real pleasure to him. For an instant he forgot
that they had both spoken German.

"No, no!" he cried animatedly. "For lek him go by village. Bad road
dissa way. No cross ze field. _Verboten!_"

Then Helen remembered that trespassers are sternly warned off the low
lying lands in the mountains. Grass is scarce and valuable. Until the
highest pastures yield to the arid rock, pedestrians mu