“Are you going to the peak again?” asks Mrs. Cardigan, addressing me in a highly-dissuasive tone. “I don’t think I shall.” “I don’t think I can,” I answer. “I have exhausted my power of climbing for the present. We will go out in front of the cave while Eric and Mr. Burnet prepare our sleeping-apartment.” “Yes, we can see the moon very well from here, and have the benefit of the fire too,” says Mrs. Cardigan, stepping from under the shadow of the rock. I step out also, and am amused to observe how Mr. Lanier hesitates for a minute, uncertain whether to follow Sylvia, who is mounting the path leading to the summit of the peak, or to remain with us. If the former had given one backward glance, his hesitation would have been short; but she gives none. Whether he comes or not is plainly a matter on which she does not bestow a thought, as, with Charley’s assistance, she springs lightly up the rock-strewed way. Almost any man in such a situation would be piqued. Mr. Lanier is no exception to the rule. He turns to Mrs. Cardigan and remarks that he is too tired for further climbing. [Illustration: “Sylvia volunteers to toast some bread.”] “We will sit down here,” he says, pointing to a flat, convenient stone, “and enjoy the moonlight without fatiguing ourselves.” We sit down, but the moon receives an exceedingly small share of the attention of my companions. Mrs. Cardigan devotes herself to the entertainment of Mr. Lanier; Mr. Lanier returns the compliment by devoting himself to the entertainment of Mrs. Cardigan. In fifteen minutes they are launched in full tide of flirtation; so, feeling myself _de trop_, I rise and stroll away. Eric and Mr. Burnet, assisted by Rupert and Harrison, are making our couch, an operation which I watch with considerable interest and amusement. First an oil-cloth is spread, then a number of balsam twigs are strewed thickly, and over these quilts and shawls are placed. “There!” says Eric, turning to me when the last has been laid. “If you don’t call that a good bed, you don’t know what a good bed is! I should not mind sleeping on it every night.” “Perhaps that is because you have made it yourself,” I say, with a laugh. “One is apt to think well of one’s own handiwork.” But I am constrained to admit, when I try the bed, that it is very comfortable, the balsam boughs being in a measure elastic, and their fresh, spicy odor full of delightful woodland suggestions. I wrap my water-proof around me, take a satchel for a pillow, curl down, and fall asleep, while figures are still passing to and fro around the ruddy fire, and the silver splendor of the night lies beyond. I am dimly conscious of voices talking, of other figures lying down, and of quietness presently, only broken now and then by a scuffle (apparently between Charley and Rupert) on the subject of cover, or by some one rising to replenish the fire. About midnight I overhear, in a state between sleeping and waking, the following conversation: