They came to the wide solemn coombe, and went up it to the foot of the mountain. The snow lingered here, sometimes in deep drifts, among the rocks, but almost every foot of ground that had shaken off its winter covering was jewelled with Alpine flowers. It was another world they had come to, above the trees and the coarser growths, with a sense of freedom and space and bigness about it that was lacking in the lower valleys. The silence was broken only by the tinkle of the rivulets and the occasional shrill chatter of a _marmotte_, which they could sometimes descry sitting alert on a distant rock. They ate their lunch of sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, chocolate, Gruyere cheese, and oranges, with a bottle of Valais wine, and agreed that they had never enjoyed a lunch more. Then they sat with their backs against a rock, while Grafton smoked, and a deep peace and contentment settled down upon them. "Isn't it perfect?" said Barbara, after a time. "I feel that this is the best that life has to offer, Dad. I wonder how much of that feeling is due to being rested and fed, after having been rather tired and rather hungry." "I should think about half," he said. "That only leaves half for the scenery, and the lovely air and the sunshine, and _not_ being in Paris, and being with you, and looking forward to going home as the next thing. It isn't enough." "And it leaves nothing at all for being young, and having nothing on your mind; nothing at all to worry yourself about. That's the great advantage of being young, which you never realise till you're no longer young. When something good comes along, like this, you can enjoy it to the full." "You've got nothing to worry you now, have you, Dad?" she asked, after a pause. "No, darling," he said, after another. "The way is pretty clear ahead now. Lots of jolly things to be done and some quite nice people to take an interest in. You and I will be able to do some of the nice things together, won't we?" "It will be lovely," she said. "We're doing one of the nice things now. It was rather a good move, our coming here together, wasn't it, Dad?" "Yes, a first-class move. Do you ever read Wordsworth, Barbara?" "Not more than I'm obliged, darling. I've read about the tiresome child who couldn't count, and he nagged at her." "I don't mean that sort of Wordsworth. Mother loved him. She read me things when we were on our honeymoon, going to beautiful places together." "Then I should like to read him. What sort of things?" "He makes you see how beautiful Nature is: I can't explain it exactly, but if you take it right it has a sort of soothing uplifting influence on you." "Yes, I've felt that sometimes, especially since we went to live at Abington. But--perhaps it's because I'm too young--I don't think you can enjoy it so much alone."