Indiana laughed. Glen bit his lips savagely. It sounded to him like the mocking laugh he had heard in his dreams, on the farm in the West, that miserable week when he had exiled himself. The morning mists floated above them, growing denser. The clouds reflecting in the glassy lake, exposed only a fringe of red foliage. Gradually the mists were tinged with a faint opaline glow, deepening gradually. The sun rose as they neared Camp Indiana. *CHAPTER XII.* *Leading to the Altar.* Glen did not renounce his original intention of climbing White Face mountains. He slept for two hours, breakfasted, and started for White Face trail at ten o’clock. There was no one stirring at the camp. When he returned it was four in the afternoon. He found Indiana lying in the hammock on the balcony, Lord Canning, seated beside her, reading poetry aloud. Glen threw himself into a chair. "I’m pretty well used up!" "I should think so," said Indiana, "climbing White Face after being up all night! I’ll order some tea for you, and then you’d better go to bed." She sprang from the hammock and disappeared, returning again in a moment. "Thank you, Indiana. I’m glad I went. It was magnificent! The view as clear as possible, and snow on the summit!" "I thought we might see you and Haller from the lake, but I couldn’t get Lord Canning away from the camp to-day. He was so lazy." Lord Canning smiled. He had his own reasons for staying home, having resolved not to let the day pass without speaking to his host of the subject of Indiana. So far there had been no opportunity. The family did not appear until lunch-time, and ever since, Stillwater had been closeted, writing business letters. Though excessively fatigued, Glen felt immeasurably better for climbing White Face. The physical tax had cleared his brain. He had been exhilarated by the cold, rare air on the summit. He drank his tea with a pleasurable sense of lassitude, and, his eyes fixed on Indiana swinging in the hammock, replied rather absently to Lord Canning’s questions regarding the ascent. Lord Canning rose, closing his Tennyson. "I think I’ll stroll down to the lake, Miss Stillwater, if you don’t mind." He smiled at Glen, with a feeling of generosity. Indiana looked after him thoughtfully as he strolled down through the trees. "He’s a thorough gentleman—so unobtrusive. He never asks prying questions—and he’s never in the way." "Too slow for me," replied Glen, watching her narrowly. "But I suppose you must have someone to flirt with." Indiana swung slowly. "Perhaps—I’m in earnest—this time!" Glen rose and grasped her wrist tightly. "Don’t say that, Indy! While you’re single I shall never give up hope. Now, what’s in the way? I’m not your inferior in education. Do you know any handsomer fellow than I?"—with a grim affectation of humor. "If it’s for money—I have all you’ll ever want."