On Saturdays they took long tramps, seeking objective points far beyond the range of ordinary ramblers. CHAPTER XL THE END OF THE WOOING Madge had often turned wistful eyes toward High Peak, and on the last Saturday before their final return to the city she said to Graydon, "Dare we attempt it? Perhaps if we gave the day to the climb, and took it leisurely--" "There's no 'perhaps' about it. We'll go if you wish. I should like nothing better than to get lost with you." "There is no danger of getting lost," she replied, hastily. "The hotel must be visible from the whole line of its summit, and I am told that there is a path to the top of the mountain." "I will be ready in half an hour," he said. It was a lovely day in early September. The air was soft, yet cool and bracing enough to make climbing agreeable. Graydon had a lunch basket, which he could sling over his shoulder, well filled, and ordered a carriage. "There is no need of our tramping over the intervening miles of dusty roads which must be passed before we begin our climb," he said, "and the distance we ride will make a pleasant drive for Mary and the children." Madge and Graydon reached the summit without any great difficulty, Mary having returned with the assurance that they would find their own way back to the hotel. As the hours passed, Graydon began to gather more hope than he had dared to entertain since his shattered theory had so disheartened him. In spite of his fancied knowledge about Madge, it was hard to believe she was very unhappy that morning. There was an elasticity to her step, a ring of genuine gladness in her tones and laugh, which did not suggest that she was consciously carrying a heavy burden. "She certainly is the bravest and most unselfish girl I ever imagined," he thought, as they left the highest point after enjoying the view. "With an art so inimitable as to be artless, she has tried to give me enjoyment. Instead of regarding herself as one to be entertained, she has been pouring forth words, fancies, snatches of song like sparkling wine, and I am exhilarated instead of being wearied." When at last they found a spring at which to eat their lunch, he told her so, concluding, "This mountain air does you good, Madge." "So do you," she replied, with a piquant nod. "Don't be conceited when I tell you that you are good company." "No; but I can't help being happy." "Oh, indeed! It doesn't seem to take much to make you happy." "Not very much from you." "Pass me a biscuit, Graydon; I want something more substantial than fine speeches after our climb. Isn't all this truly Arcadian--this mossy rug on which we have placed our lunch, the trees whispering about us overhead, and the spring there bubbling over with something concerning which it murmurs so contentedly?" "I wonder what they think of us! I can imagine one thing." "You are always imagining. The idea of your being a banker! Well, there is a loud whisper from the trees. What was remarked?"