"But—if one can do the things that one likes better than the things one doesn't like—wouldn't that be best?" "Not from the point of view of character-making. When a man does his best badly in the line that he does not love, it is actually better, actually worth more, than if he were successful to any amount in the line that he would love. Of course we're right to do the work we prefer, when it's given us to do. But the other may have grander results. Men are not always called to what they would choose for themselves." She pondered this again, then said with a smile— "Curious that we should have got into such a grave talk, up here!" "One often does," he replied; and it was true, as many have found in their position. The splendour of a scene, such as that on which they gazed, does not lend itself to moods of frivolity. Pastures dotted with human homes may consort with gaiety; but the wild solitudes of mountain heights are not gay. They seem rather to be intensely earnest; uplifted above light talk and merriment; brooding solemnly over earth's smallness; apart from lesser interests; leading the minds of those who gain their presence to deeper and higher topics. Pressford, having gone farther than he intended, now came crunching over the hard snow. It was all right, he said,—and "a rare sporting bit." His quiet eyes held an unwonted gleam in them, as of a mountain warrior, eager for the fray, thirsting for a fight with Nature's obstacles. But for Maurice all was not so clear. With regard to Pressford and himself, the climb might be practicable enough. Could it be looked upon as right for the girl? That was the real question, and he did not attempt to hide his anxiety. "Indeed, indeed, I'm not afraid," urged Doris. "I'm not one least little atom afraid. It is all so much easier than I expected. And I'm splendidly fresh still. And to go back now—oh, it would be too desperately disappointing. Please, please, don't make me!" "She can do it," once more asserted Pressford's imperturbable voice. "I don't half like her to try." "Well,—we'll put matters to the test. She shall wait here, while you and I do part of the way. If we find that it 'goes,' you shall come down for her on the rope; and I'll haul her up. That does away with risks. The awkward part is certainly not more than a hundred feet or so. Once over that, we shall be all right." This plan, after some further discussion, was adopted. Pressford and Maurice began the ascent; the former leading. Only thirty feet of rope separated the two men. They followed the rule, invariable in rock climbing,—one moving, while the other stood firm, hitching the rope over any convenient rock-projection, and thus making himself as secure as possible, to ensure safety in the event of a slip on the part of his companion.