"But it had to be done. There was no other way," Doris eagerly explained. "It would have been much worse to go alone all down the mountain. And Mr. Maurice couldn't have held you up, all those hours." "I should have come to—in time." "I rather doubt it—in the position in which you were hanging," Maurice said dryly. "And if you had, it would have been an awkward spot for you to tackle in your present state. You were not over the ledge. And just below you—" He did not finish the sentence. Pressford took another look, and muttered—"Hm!" "So we owe our lives, both of us, to Miss Winton's courage." Maurice attempted no self-defence. He simply could not explain what the giving of that permission had meant to himself. He could not trust himself to speak of it. "I say—time is going, and we have to get down the mountain. I believe I can walk now." "Wait half-an-hour more. We will start then. Miss Winton and I want another breakfast first." "Yes, indeed. I'm just starving," declared the girl. During the half-hour they munched bread and chocolate, talking and laughing, as if none of the three had, only a little while before, been on the very verge of that gulf which divides this life from the next. Not that they had not been deeply impressed; not that they were not profoundly thankful; but something of reaction was upon them. Doris was in a state of natural exultation at having achieved a task of no small difficulty and danger, thereby saving two lives; and Maurice's hopes with regard to her had risen high. He could not but feel how much nearer together they had drawn this eventful day. A start had to be made. They were roped again; Doris now, in the descent, going first; and Maurice, occupying the post of most danger, behind. Pressford, as the least capable of the three, had to be in the middle. So soon as he was on his feet, it became evident that he was suffering greatly from pain and dizziness; but he pulled himself together, and managed better than might have been expected. While any real difficulty of footing existed, he kept this up; down the steep snow-slope, and on the lower belt of rocks, which had meant for them two hours of stiff ascent. Then he collapsed, and had to lie on the ground for nearly an hour, semi-conscious. In the long stretch which followed of pine-wood and easy pasturage, he failed again and again; and one rest had to follow another. So hours passed; and it was dusk when they neared the village. Yet the time had not seemed tedious to Doris; still less, to Maurice. These repeated rests gave them opportunities for long quiet tête-à-tête talks on many subjects; and neither of the two had any wish to reach the end of the walk, for their own sakes, though both were solicitous for Pressford. By the time that the lights of the village hove in sight, and their troubles were ended, it seemed to Doris that she had known Maurice all her life. It seemed yet more to Maurice that life without Doris had never been.