of the
High Sierra had wilder notes, above and beyond all knowledge of fleeting
episodes such as human lives and civilizations. For the song had not
changed since the world was young. The air was not mere air, but seemingly
a conscious mingling of Divine Ether with the atmosphere. Though they
ascended always, it was as if they rode through the depths of a crystal
sea, unstirred by their presence, a sea as deep and as high as heaven, a
blue that took the solidity of turquoise between tree-trunks and paled to
opaline fire across the canon. Angela knew that never again, after these
spacious days, could she go back to her old self. She felt that she had
mounted one step higher on the stage of development, and gained an ampler
view. It was easier now than it had been to see how Nick Hilliard had
become what he was. Nature, on the grandest scale and with the "grand
manner," she thought, had given him his education; had been for him at
once schoolmistress, guide, and companion. And no college built by man
could give, for money, such knowledge as sky and wide spaces had given
Nick for love.

Early in the afternoon the ponies brought them to the high plateau of
Glacier Point, where, looking down, the world was a sea billowing with
mountains, foaming with cataracts.

Angela was deliciously tired; and the long low hotel, built of logs, with
a huge veranda, seemed to promise the welcome she wanted: a cool, clean
room, a warm bath, and afterward luncheon. Also, she expected to find
Kate. Nick had wired, or telephoned, she was uncertain which; and though
no answer had been received, Kate's silence might no doubt be easily
explained later. Angela felt confident that she would have precisely the
room she pictured; she rather hoped it would be white and green.

The manager met them on the veranda, but it was not the manager Nick had
known.

"My name's Hilliard," Nick began.

"Oh, yes. I 'phoned an answer to you at the Sentinel Hotel this morning.
Something wrong with the wire between us yesterday."

"We must have started before you 'phoned."

"Well, I'm sorry. You wanted two rooms. But the best we can do for you and
Mrs. Hilliard is one."

"Great Scot, you don't know what you're talking about!" gasped Nick. "This
is Mrs. May."

"Beg your pardon, Mr. May. I thought you said your name was Hilliard."

"It is. But hers isn't. We--I--I'm only her guide," stammered Nick, so
deeply embarrassed for Angela's sake that for the moment