am, and not spoil the significance!"

"I'm content to rank beside you; we can climb together," said Frank
Scherman. "Even Miss Craydocke has not got to the highest, you see," he
went on, a little hurriedly.

Sin Saxon broke in as hurriedly as he, with a deeper flush still upon
her face. "There's everything beyond. That's part of it. But she helps
one to feel what the higher--the Highest--must be. She's like the rock
she stands on. She's one of the steps."

"Come, Asenath, let's go up." And he held out his hand to her till she
took it and rose. They had known each other from childhood, as I said;
but Frank Scherman hardly ever called her by her name. "Miss Saxon" was
formal, and her school sobriquet he could not use. It seemed to mean a
great deal when he did say "Asenath."

And Sin Saxon took his hand and let him lead her up, notwithstanding the
"significance."

They are young, and I am not writing a love-story; but I think they
will "climb together;" and that the words that wait to be said are mere
words,--they have known and understood each other so long.

* * * * *

"I feel like a camel at a fountain, drinking in what is to last through
the dry places," said Martha Josselyn, as they came up. "Miss Saxon, you
don't know what you have given us to-day. I shall take home the hills in
my heart."

"We might have gone without seeing this," said Susan.

"No, you mightn't," said Sin Saxon. "It's my good luck to see you see
it, that's all. It couldn't be in the order of things, you know, that
you should be so near it, and want it, and not have it, somehow."

"So much _is_ in the order of things, though!" said Martha. "And there
are so many things we want, without knowing them even to _be_!"

"That's the beauty of it, I think," said Leslie Goldthwaite, turning
back from where she stood, bright in the sunset glory, on the open rock.
Her voice was like that of some young prophet of joy, she was so full of
the gladness and loveliness of the time. "That's the beauty of it, I
think. There is such a worldful, and you never know what you may be
coming to next!"

"Well, this is our last--of the mountains. We go on Tuesday."

"It isn't your last of us, though, or of what we want of you," rejoined
Sin Saxon. "We must have the tableaux for Monday. We can't do without
you in Robin Gray or Consolation. And about Tuesday,--it's only your own
making up of minds. You haven't written, have you? The