d gratefully to Mrs. Frayling. For
mercifully Henrietta was here to help fill the void; to, in a manner,
break her fall. Henrietta didn't belong to the depths or the heights,
that she regretfully admitted. With the eternal snows she possessed
little or nothing in common. But, at a lower, more everyday level, had
not she a vast amount to offer, what with her personal loveliness, her
social cleverness, her knowledge of the world and its ways? She might not
amount to the phoenix of Damaris' childhood's adoration; but she was very
friendly, very diverting, delightfully kind. Damaris honestly believed
all these excellent things of her.--She had been stupidly fastidious
three days ago, and failed to do Henrietta justice. What she had
learned--by chance--this afternoon, of Henrietta's unselfishness and
generous treatment of Marshall Wace bore effectively convincing witness
to the sweetness of her disposition and kindness of her heart. Damaris
felt bound to make amends for that unspoken injustice, of which she now
repented. How better could she do so than by giving herself warmly,
without reserve or restraint, in response to the interest and attention
Henrietta lavished upon her?--At eighteen, to be wooed by so finished and
popular a person was no mean compliment.--She wouldn't hold back,
suspicious and grudging; but enjoy all Henrietta so delightfully offered
to the uttermost.

And there, as though clenching the conclusion thus arrived at, Mrs.
Frayling's voice gaily hailed her, calling:

"Damaris, Damaris, here is our tea--or rather our coffee. Come, darling
child, and partake before it gets cold."

So after a brief pause, spent in determined looking, the girl bowed her
head in mute farewell; and turned her back perhaps courageously, perhaps
unwisely and somewhat faithlessly, upon the mountains, and the rare
mysteries of their untrodden snows. She went across the sparse turf,
starred with tiny clear, coloured flowers, her face stern, for all its
youthful bloom and softness, her eyes meditative and profound.

The owner of the log-built restaurant, a thick-set, grizzled veteran of
the Franco-Prussian war, the breast of his rusty velveteen jacket proudly
bearing a row of medals, stood talking to Mrs. Frayling, hat in hand. His
right foot had suffered amputation some inches above the ankle, and he
walked with the ungainly support of a crutch-topped peg-leg strapped to
the flexed knee.

As Damaris approached the carriage, he