“Not a doubt of it,” Betsy replied promptly. She feared that any other answer would send her companion to the commissary department of the inn. Helen Maynard and Mr. Derwent were together watching the lovely sight when Robert Nixon came upon them. His hands were in his pockets and he was whistling softly, as was his wont when the performance was not cheerfully piercing. “May I come and stand by the rich lady?” he asked. The geyser was just disappearing. “How cold and blank the night seems to have turned!” said Helen pensively. Robert struck his breast with his doubled fist. “Cruel maiden!” he ejaculated, “why flout me thus? Say, Miss Maynard,” he continued, in a voice changed to interest, “do you know you can make Uncle Henry hear better than anybody?” “I have made a study of it,” returned the girl composedly. Robert gazed at her admiringly. “I think it was downright fine and heroic for Uncle Henry to crush those conspirators and get your shekels for you. He’s going to miss you like his right hand.” “I hope he will miss me a little.” As she spoke Helen looked up at the fine head set so well on Mr. Derwent’s broad shoulders; at the white mustache, and gray hair, and all the features she knew so well. “I’ll bet she admires him,” thought Robert, following her gaze to the impassive face. “He’s a winner. If he only had his hearing he’d make us all take notice.” Robert shook his head with the fleeting sympathy of prosperous youth. The sightseers began to gravitate toward the hotel, and this trio moved with them. Within the inn all was warmth and light. A Brobdingnagian corn-popper was produced, and one of the open fires being reduced to the proper condition, a cheerful crackling began as the corn bounded high in its ample prison. “We’re in the land of bigness, Mrs. Nixon,” said Mrs. Bruce, as they sat at a comfortable distance from the heat. “Indeed, yes,” returned that lady. “I was just saying to Miss Maynard that apparently the mountains set the pace here.” As she spoke, Mrs. Nixon looked graciously at her companion, who occupied a neighboring chair. “Were you, indeed!” thought Mrs. Bruce, amused. “I’m glad you’ve found out you can say something to the girl!” “Irving,” she said aloud, looking up at her son as he stood, tall and abstracted, staring into the mammoth fire, “why don’t you take Miss Maynard up to the Lookout. There must be a glorious view from there to-night.” Without moving, Helen lifted her eyes to Irving and met his gloomy regard. “I doubt if Miss Maynard cares to ascend a perpendicular corduroy road,” he answered. “I’m told it is eight stories up.” “You might ask her,” remarked the girl herself, with composure. “Surely,” laughed Mrs. Bruce. “It would be such a simple way of finding out.” Irving had not the grace to smile. He continued to regard the humble companion of yesterday, the heiress of to-day, without moving. “Would you?” he asked sententiously. “Yes,” she replied promptly, and rose.