Following steadily a little footpath, she reached a store-châlet, with open door, revealing an empty inside. Deciding after one peep that it might be a cow-house, she perched herself on some stones outside, and heaved a sigh of content. In front of her now a new vista had dawned, beyond the far end of the Rhone valley; a vista of snowy heights, crowded together in the distance; some sharp as needles; some lofty and rounded, with snowfields shining in sunlight, intermingled with light clouds. It was a delicate dreamland of loveliness, contrasting with the dark rocky ranges which made for it a frame. Hardly a sound broke the stillness, except the ceaseless buzz and murmur of insects, the snapping of grasshoppers, the song of a bird. She settled herself to gaze and listen, but soon reverted to her previous line of thought. Again she opened Hamilton's letter, and this time read it through. It seemed rather dull. All about geology, and the make of mountains. Well, not dull exactly, for he wrote well on his own subjects, and she was an intelligent girl—only—she was not in the state of mind to-day for science. She liked to learn, and she liked to have a lover; but a scientific lover hardly appealed to her present mood. It was preferable to have the science and the love-making in separate doses. Mr. Maurice might be scientific too. One or two things that he had said left an impression of his being, in her girlish phraseology, "most awfully clever." But she was sure that he would never sandwich in his scientific information between layers of love-making,—supposing him to be in love with anybody! It was not as if Hamilton Stirling would be willing to give her a fair share of talk and opinions,—should she in the far off "end" consent to be his wife. She said this to herself; and she was conscious of a rising rebellion at the thought. Before leaving home, it had not seemed impossible. This morning such a future looked unattractive. She would have always—invariably—to agree with him. She would have always—invariably—to act the part of submissive listener. She would have always—invariably—to let her own ideas go down before his. It was so much pleasanter to be allowed one's own opinions; not to be squashed flat, with a superior smile, the moment one ventured to make a suggestion. Mr. Hamilton Stirling was so fearfully superior, and sure of himself. Mr. Maurice was so different! A little laugh broke from her. Of course he had his opinions; and when he didn't agree with her he told her so, but not by way of a set-down. He explained what he thought, and why he thought it; and he let her say what she wished in answer. She was gazing towards that distant dreamland of snowy heights; but she had ceased to see it. She had ceased to hear the snapping of grasshoppers. She only saw again that kind strong face, with its unexpected smile, and its clear truthful eyes. She only heard that well-modulated musical voice.