e weather changed. Marie, awakening
early, stepped out on to the balcony and closed the door carefully
behind her. A new world lay beneath her, a marvel of glittering
branches, of white plain far below; the snowy mane of the Raxalpe was
become a garment. And from behind the villa came the cheerful sound of
sleigh-bells, of horses' feet on crisp snow, of runners sliding easily
along frozen roads. Even the barking of the dog in the next yard had
ceased rumbling and become sharp staccato.

The balcony extended round the corner of the house. Marie, eagerly
discovering her new world, peered about, and seeing no one near ventured
so far. The road was in view, and a small girl on ski was struggling to
prevent a collision between two plump feet. Even as Marie saw her the
inevitable happened and she went headlong into a drift. A governess who
had been kneeling before a shrine by the road hastily crossed herself
and ran to the rescue.

It was a marvelous morning, a day of days. The governess and the child
went on out of vision. Marie stood still, looking at the shrine. A drift
had piled about its foot, where the governess had placed a bunch of
Alpine flowers. Down on her knees on the balcony went the little
Marie, regardless of the snow, and prayed to the shrine of the Virgin
below--for what? For forgiveness? For a better life? Not at all. She
prayed that the heels of the American girl would keep her in out of the
snow.

The prayer of the wicked availeth nothing; even the godly at times must
suffer disappointment. And when one prays of heels, who can know of
the yearning back of the praying? Marie, rising and dusting her chilled
knees, saw the party of Americans on the road, clad in stout boots
and swinging along gayly. Marie shrugged her shoulders resignedly. She
should have gone to the shrine itself; a balcony was not a holy
place. But one thing she determined--the Americans went toward the
Sonnwendstein. She would advise against the Sonnwendstein for that day.

Marie's day of days had begun wrong after all. For Stewart rose with the
Sonnwendstein in his mind, and no suggestion of Marie's that in another
day a path would be broken had any effect on him. He was eager to be
off, committed the extravagance of ordering an egg apiece for breakfast,
and finally proclaimed that if Marie feared the climb he would go alone.

Marie made many delays: she dressed slowly, and must run back to see
if the balcony door was securely closed