It was a sight worth waking for—the pale lake lying in shadow, the pyramidal Niesen mass rising darkly beyond. Further shone the snow-peaks of the Blumlisalp and tips of the Jungfrau range with a silver glow from the coming sun. The tint could hardly be otherwise described. It was not rose or gold, nor was it ordinary "cold" silver, but a pale rose-silver, if such a colour exists. She watched breathlessly, kneeling, lost in admiration; unknowing whether the sight appealed more to her artistic or her spiritual self. It made her think of Colin and his ideals. It made her think of Giles. It lifted her heart to the Divine Source of all earthly and heavenly beauty. She whispered her prayers softly, looking with bodily and mental eyes on that indescribable light, while her spiritual eyes were uplifted to her Father in heaven. Then the ascending monarch of day crushed out the delicate tinting, and flooded heights and vales with gold. By half-past six Phyllys was down to breakfast, as was Mr. Forsyth, but the elder ladies were later. Had they not arranged to drive to the boat-station, they would have failed to catch the steamer. A sharp air assailed them on the lake, and Mrs. Keith looked blue, by no means in condition for exertion. She held to her point, however, and refused to turn back. Phyllys could have been in dancing spirits. The beauty of lake and mountain, the charms of the coming ascent, the prospect of Castle Hill, the hopes that her fears would prove groundless and that Giles would be in the future all he had been in the past—these buoyed her up; and the one wet blanket was Mrs. Keith's unhappiness. As they neared Interlaken, she did indeed force a cheerful manner; but when they landed her eyes were everywhere, nervously on the look-out. Phyllys could not but notice this, could not but conjecture explanations. From Interlaken they went by train to a station at the base of the mountain, where they entered the tiny mountain-train. Mrs. Keith would not be hurried, and they nearly lost their first chance. Though late in the season, enough tourists appeared to fill the train—but they managed to pack in; Mrs. Keith close to a window; Phyllys beside her; the Forsyths in front, whence they could lean back to talk. As the gradient became more steep, the engine puffed vigorously. "Schynige Platte—not far from seven thousand feet high," announced Mr. Forsyth, dividing his attention between his Guide-book and Phyllys. "Subtract from that the eighteen hundred feet altitude of the lake—leaves a respectable amount still to climb! Engine worked with a cog-wheel—very safe—all precautions taken. Ascent lasts about an hour and a half—or less. I beg your pardon—" at a gasp from Mrs. Keith. "I thought it lasted twenty minutes!"—in dismay. "Dear me, no. You are thinking of S. Beatenberg. This is a longer affair." "It won't seem any time at all—there is so much to see," murmured Phyllys.