Phyllys was content to be left to her studies of that sublimity. They were always fearing she would be dull, with no young companions of her own age. She laughed at the notion. Dull!—with this to look upon! Dull!—with Giles to think about! It could hardly be called a "lawn" on which she sat. It was more like a field, sloping downward. Two small trees sheltered her head; below the garden lay more grass-land; then the road which skirted the lake; then some rough wooden structures and a vegetable garden; then the lake; then the mountain amphitheatre. Prominent in front, across the translucent blue-green water, stood a mountain of pyramidal shape, by name the "Niesen"—a useful friend to the neighbourhood, acting as weather barometer by the simple process of putting on and pulling off his cloud-cap. He had slipped it on and whisked it off three or four times this day, as if unable to make up his mind. A range of half-cumulous clouds was creeping along the sides; and above towered the hoary mass of the Blumlisalp, one keen-cut edge over a dull barrier of rock glowing like a piece of white enamel. Far away to the left stood forth the three chief giants of the scene—the mighty Jungfrau, sharply outlined, pure and snowy, with grey hollows and shades; the white Mönch; and the rocky Eiger. Phyllys drank it all in, finding each minute some new beauty, some fresh dent or fold, some perfect moulding, some wonderful contrast in light and shade, some unexpected harmony of form. "One would never get to the end," she whispered; "not in years and years." Doleful sounds ceased, and hardly had she congratulated herself, before she found Mr. Forsyth at her side; an elderly man, scarcely taller than herself, with eyes full of kindness and full also of anxious worry, echoed by horizontal lines on his retreating forehead. Not that he had anything to worry about, but that he never could resist worrying about nothing. He suffered from nervous depression, and found chief solace in his violin. He came with a cautious step, as if picking his way; yet when he spoke, words tumbled fast, one upon another. "Well, Miss Wyverne, tired of sitting here all alone! Pretty view, eh?—very pretty! I've been trying that tune over again—you know it." Phyllys had vainly sought to pin a name to the concatenation of wails. "Couldn't manage it yesterday. Goes better now. Just a matter of practice. We'll try again after dinner?" And she smiled assent, though with an internal shiver at the prospect. "First-rate thought of my wife, hiring that piano. A little music, always cheerful. Would you like a run into Thun—get tea, and come back for dinner?"