self up there,
walking along hour after hour, or lying out in the sun beside her. What
was old Stormer talking about? The difference between the Greek and
Roman views of honour. Always in the past--seemed to think the present
was bad form. And he said:

"We met some English Grundys, sir, on the mountain."

"Ah, yes! Any particular brand?"

"Some advanced, and some not; but all the same, I think, really."

"I see. Grundys, I think you said?"

"Yes, sir, from this hotel. It was Mrs. Stormer's name for them. They
were so very superior."

"Quite."

There was something unusual in the tone of that little word. And the boy
stared--for the first time there seemed a real man standing there. Then
the blood rushed up into his cheeks, for there she was! Would she come
up to them? How splendid she was looking, burnt by the sun, and walking
as if just starting! But she passed into the hotel without turning her
head their way. Had he offended, hurt her? He made an excuse, and got
away to his room.

In the window from which that same morning he had watched the mountains
lying out like lions in the dim light, he stood again, and gazed at the
sun dropping over the high horizon. What had happened to him? He felt
so different, so utterly different. It was another world. And the most
strange feeling came on him, as of the flowers falling again all over his
face and neck and hands, the tickling of their soft-fringed edges, the
stinging sweetness of their scent. And he seemed to hear her voice
saying: "Feel!" and to feel her heart once more beating under his hand.

VI

Alone with that black-shawled figure in the silent church, Anna did not
pray. Resting there on her knees, she experienced only the sore
sensation of revolt. Why had Fate flung this feeling into her heart,
lighted up her life suddenly, if God refused her its enjoyment? Some of
the mountain pinks remained clinging to her belt, and the scent of them,
crushed against her, warred with the faint odour of age and incense.
While they were there, with their enticement and their memories, prayer
would never come. But did she want to pray? Did she desire the mood of
that poor soul in her black shawl, who had not moved by one hair's
breadth since she had been watching her, who seemed resting her humble
self so utterly, letting life lift from her, feeling the relief of
nothingness? Ah, yes! what would it be to have a life so toilsome, so
little exciti