His words came as a shock to Catherine. “Fancy thinking of that when he has the mountains to look at!” Her opinion of masculine nature, which was chiefly based on an intimate acquaintance with the poetry of Shelley, went down a hundred degrees. In a few minutes more she found herself in the little bare room allotted to her, where the furniture was of the simplest and the cleanliness complete. She felt herself, in her dusty dress, a stain on its exquisite purity. She rushed to her portmanteau and opened it. “It is extravagant, I know, but I can’t help it!” And she shook out of its folds a white muslin dress that had hitherto been sacred to “functions” and festivals. And as she arrayed herself in it before the glass the conviction came to her that she really looked very nice. Was she growing vain, she wondered, or why was it that she felt such a sudden interest in her appearance? She left her room and came timidly down the corridor. Now that she was alone in this big hotel, a certain fear came over her. She had boasted to herself that she was able to take care of herself; she had had no compunctions in coming alone on this expedition; of course she would have preferred to have a companion, but since all her efforts to obtain one had been unavailing, she had determined not to be disappointed of the anticipated pleasure, and had, therefore, come alone. But now she felt almost sorry that she had done so; however innocent her intention, she felt that she had laid herself open to misconstruction; her experience on the journey had told her that. “My sister has sent me to see if I could find you,” said a voice beside her. “The dining-room is this way. She has kept a seat for you—unless, of course, you prefer to sit somewhere else.” The tone was rather constrained, as if the speaker had been party to an arrangement of which he did not altogether approve. Inwardly he was thinking, “She seems a nice girl enough, and is certainly very pretty, but I wish Margaret would not rush into these impulsive friendships.” Catherine felt the coldness, and was glad to sink into the chair that he placed for her. His sister sat between them, and bravely tried to keep up a conversation. But Catherine was subdued and nervous, and her brother was silent and restrained. Nobody was sorry when dinner was over, and Margaret and Catherine strolled into the verandah. The days were already drawing in, and it was nearly dark, but a slender moon hung between the two snowy peaks that guarded the valley, and in their ears was the murmur of a torrent, that, slipping from the icy embrace of the mountains, rushed impetuously from the glacier that was wedged between them. [Illustration: MENDING THE QUILT.]