"My dear Lyle, because I say little, you must not think I take no interest in this affair which concerns you so closely. I am deeply interested, more deeply than you will probably ever know, but it is for many reasons a painful subject to me, one full of bitter memories; but I have one favor to ask of you, my dear child, which I know you will grant for the sake of the memory of the happy hours we have spent together,--it is this; that whatever proof you may succeed in finding, you will first bring to me." "Certainly I will, dear Jack," Lyle had replied, wondering at his manner, "in whom should I confide if not in you, who have been my first and best friend." And he, his dark, piercing eyes looking into the depths of her own, their gaze softened by tender affection, had replied: "Yes, your friend always, Lyle, remember that; none truer or more devoted to you or your welfare; but before long, my dear, your heart will learn, if it has not learned already, the difference between friendship and love." With burning cheeks and tearful eyes Lyle recalled his words, and pondered deeply on the strange bond that seemed, in some way, to exist between his life and hers, but the longer she tried to solve the problem, the deeper and more obscure it seemed. In the midst of her reflections, she heard a light step upon the rocky footpath, and looking up, saw Morton Rutherford approaching. So absorbed was he in the study of the masses of rock about him, on which had been traced by the finger of the centuries, in wonderful hieroglyphics, the early history of the earth, that for a time he was unconscious of her presence there. When he saw her he raised his hat and came quickly forward. "I beg your pardon," he said, in deep, musical tones, "I supposed myself alone with my own thoughts; am I intruding? if so, send me away at once." "No, stay, if you please," said Lyle. "Thank you," he answered, seating himself on the rocks at a little distance, "you appeared so lost in thought I feared my coming might annoy you." "No," she replied, "my thoughts were too perplexing, I was growing weary of them." Mr. Rutherford glanced at the surrounding mountains; "Were you, too, trying to fathom the mystery of the eternal hills?" he asked. "No," was her reply, "I have never attempted anything so far beyond me as that; I have found more mysteries in every-day, human life than I could solve." Morton Rutherford was silent for a few moments, then he said in low tones: "I hope you will pardon me when I say, that to me, your own life here, under the existing circumstances and conditions, is a mystery, one which seems capable of but one solution." "And what would be your solution?" she asked quickly. He saw that she understood his meaning, and was watching him intently, eagerly, and he said: "Permit me to reply to your question by asking one in return. Do you not believe that your life had a beginning elsewhere than here, and under far different conditions?"