t in the Herr
Doktor's American trunk: a marvel, that trunk, so firm, so heavy,
bound with iron. And with her own clothing she packed Stewart's, the
dress-suit he had worn once to the Embassy, a hat that folded, strange
American shoes, and books--always books. The Herr Doktor would study
at Semmering. When all was in readiness and Stewart was taking a final
survey, Marie ran downstairs and summoned a cab. It did not occur to her
to ask him to do it. Marie's small life was one of service, and besides
there was an element in their relationship that no one but Marie
suspected, and that she hid even from herself. She was very much in
love with this indifferent American, this captious temporary god of her
domestic altar. Such a contingency had never occurred to Stewart; but
Peter, smoking gravely in the little apartment, had more than once
caught a look in Marie's eyes as she turned them on the other man, and
had surmised it. It made him uncomfortable.

When the train was well under way, however, and he found no disturbing
element among the three others in the compartment, Stewart relaxed.
Semmering was a favorite resort with the American colony, but not until
later in the winter. In December there were rains in the mountains, and
low-lying clouds that invested some of the chalets in constant fog.
It was not until the middle of January that the little mountain train
became crowded with tourists, knickerbockered men with knapsacks, and
jaunty feathers in their soft hats, boys carrying ski, women with Alpine
cloaks and iron-pointed sticks.

Marie was childishly happy. It was the first real vacation of her life,
and more than that she was going to Semmering, in the very shadow of the
Raxalpe, the beloved mountain of the Viennese.

Marie had seen the Rax all her life, as it towered thirty miles or
so away above the plain. On peaceful Sundays, having climbed the cog
railroad, she had seen its white head turn rosy in the setting sun, and
once when a German tourist from Munich had handed her his fieldglass she
had even made out some of the crosses that showed where travelers had
met their deaths. Now she would be very close. If the weather were good,
she might even say a prayer in the chapel on its crest for the souls of
those who had died. It was of a marvel, truly; so far may one go when
one has money and leisure.

The small single-trucked railway carriages bumped and rattled up the
mountain sides, always rising, always windi