Here Carrie J. Welton Lay to Rest Died Alone Sept. 28--1884. It was in a spot at the base of the "Key Hole" where the rocks stood on end and seemed to disappear into the boulders, that made up that vast boulder bed. From a prayer book, which Jack carried, he read the following tale of the awful tragedy: PERISHED ALONE. From the Half Way House at break of day A maiden gaily strode away, To climb the heights of Long's Peak bold, With guide to show the trail, I'm told; For there's no path and the way is steep, And death lurks 'round that grim old peak. 'Twas at the dawn of an autumn morn, The pine trees soughed as if to warn As two climbed o'er the boulder bed. "Come back! The storm! 'Twill come," he said. "On to the summit," she made reply. "Why need we falter, you and I?" Then upward climbed to view the sight Of raging storm on Long's Peak height, And saw ambition's fixéd star On guard, within the gates ajar, Lest mortal man should enter in Before absolved from venial sin. The solitude of those drear crests No welcome gives to lingering guests When storm king vies with mid-day sun In battle, 'til the conquered one Retreats for days, perhaps for weeks, And gloom reigns o'er the lonely peaks. The wild wind shrieked as in snow and hail They undertook the downward trail. She brav'd the cold and murmured not, As they groped their way from spot to spot; Her wondrous strength succumbed at last While yet the "Keyhole" must be passed. The stalwart guide in his arms then bore Her fragile form, and ponder'd o'er The waste of rocks beneath the "Key;" For his strength was failing rapidly, And night clouds dimm'd the tortuous way Which few e'er tread e'en at mid-day. "You may go for help," she moaned at last, As through the "Key" they slowly pass'd. "The rocks will shelter me," she said, And sank to rest on the boulder bed. He covered her with the coat he wore, Then hastened to the "Half Way" door. Another dawn of an autumn morn In the eastern sky had been born, As stalwart guides, with throbbing heads, Toiled wearily o'er the boulder beds; 'Midst cruel crags and waist-deep snow They battled on against the foe. Up, up, they climb'd that dreadful night And brav'd the storm on Long's Peak height; Yet wild winds shrieked as heads were bow'd To gaze with awe at the snowy shroud In which she slept on her boulder bed. "She lay to rest,--she's gone," they said. "Oh, dear, isn't it sad?" said Hazel and Miss Asquith in a breath. "She died alone?" queried Cal. "Yes, sir," spoke up a guide, "both of us would have perished, but she was true grit to the last. I thought she might hold out, but the storm grew worse as it grew darker." "Do you have such awful storms as early as September?" asked Hazel. [Illustration: "SHE LAY TO REST," ON HER BOULDER BED.]