"We all think so much of him. Why, Dick,—he always seems to me just perfect. I've never known him do a wrong thing." "He has been a most generous friend to us. Won't that do?" They walked back slowly, neither of them in haste to end the day. Recurring waves of doubt assailed Doris from time to time; but she put aside each in turn. The future would have to be met. The present she would make the most of. Still, she could not feel quite easy. When they reached the last piece of steep downhill, leading to the village, they found that they would be late for table d'hôte, and also that they were in for a grand "after-glow." Not upon snow, but upon rocks, the nearer heights being at this time of the year almost free from snow. All the vast rocky barrier, extending from the Diablerets to the Dent du Morcles, was transformed as by the touch of a magician's wand from its ordinary cold grey to an extraordinary radiance, like molten copper shining with its own intensity of heat. Between the red-gold of the Diablerets and the rich orange of the Argentiere many varieties of tints might be seen; but all were brilliant, burnished, metallic, wonderful! It was hard to believe that the gorgeous wealth of colouring was a loan, not intrinsic. The splendour lasted long, and faded gradually. Neither spoke. They stood and gazed. Doris saw vividly how, but a short time back, she had been at the parting of two ways. A single step—and she hung in the very arms of death—she was actually falling over an awful abyss. One instant of hesitation on the part of Maurice must have sealed her fate; and she would now be in that other world, beyond the veil which shrouds our senses; a world as real, as actual, as this; a world prefigured to the imagination by such a scene as that on which she was looking. A vision came of what that fall would have meant,—the fearful downward rush through yielding air; the clear consciousness of time; the lightning realisation of past and present, of squandered hours and wasted opportunities; the shock of terrific contact with mother-earth; and then—the entrance on that other world. But she had not gone. She was still on this side of the dividing veil. She had still to live this lower life of preparation, with its duties, its overvalued littlenesses, its undervalued greatnesses. And she was glad to be here; glad to be not yet called away; glad to feel that it was still in her power to make a better and nobler thing of her life than in the past. She glanced towards Maurice, and found his eyes bent steadily—not on the glowing rock-mountains, but upon herself. "Dick—I needn't tell Mrs. Brutt?" "I don't think it is her business." "But—my people must know." "Yes. The question is—shall I write to your father at once? Or, shall I wait till I go home next week, and travel straight to Lynnbrooke?" "Will you do that? Oh, Dick, it will be best—much, much best. If they see you, that will make just all the difference."