“Don’t—don’t speak to me!” interrupted Dorothy. Ethel Barrington bit her lips; then she laughed softly and continued to watch the absorbed face of her companion—this time in the desired silence. By and bye Dorothy drew a long breath and turned to her. “Isn’t it beautiful!” she murmured reverently. Miss Barrington gave a short laugh and sat up. “Yes, very beautiful, I suppose; but, do you know, I’ve seen so much I’m spoiled—absolutely spoiled for a scene like that? I’d rather look at you—you are wonderfully refreshing. I don’t know another girl that would have snapped me up as you did a minute ago.” “Indeed, I beg your pardon,” began Dorothy in distress. “Don’t!” interrupted her friend, with a petulant gesture; “you’ll be like all the rest if you do.” “But it was very rude,” insisted Dorothy earnestly. “A view like this always seems to me like a glorious piece of music, and I want everything quiet as I would if I were hearing a Beethoven symphony, you know. That is why I couldn’t bear even the tones of your voice—but it was rude of me, very.” Ethel sighed, and fell to picking a daisy to pieces. “I used to feel that way, once,” she said; “I did, really.” “I haven’t a doubt of it,” replied Dorothy, with a smile. “But I don’t any more!”—the daisy was tossed aside. “No?” “No; I’m like a five-year-old that’s had too much candy, I suppose. I’ve seen the Alps and the Rockies, the Rhine and the St. Lawrence; and yet, the first time I looked at that view I felt just as you did. But now——!” “You need something outside yourself to give zest to your life, my dear,” said Dorothy, her eyes on the town below. Ethel looked at her narrowly. “Now see here, my dear, I love you—and you know it, but I just can’t stand any of that settlement talk!” “I never said settlement,” laughed Dorothy, her eyes still on the straggling cottages. “I know, but—well, I just simply can’t! How in the world you stand those dismal sounds and sights and—and smells,” she added, with a grimace, “I don’t understand.” “I suppose the miners live in those cottages,” mused Dorothy aloud, as though she had not heard. “I suppose so,” acquiesced Ethel indifferently. “Others live over the hill in Westmont.” “They don’t look as though they’d be very comfortable,” continued Dorothy softly. “Oh, I don’t know; people like that don’t mind such things, I fancy.” “Did you ever ask them?” Ethel looked up in quick suspicion, but Dorothy’s face was placid. “Of course not! How silly!” “Suppose you do, sometimes,” suggested Dorothy, quite as a matter of course. “I thought that was what you were coming to!” flashed Ethel. “My dear girl, you have no idea what those miners are,” she continued in a superior tone. “In the first place, I don’t think there is one of them that understands a word of English, and I’d be afraid to trust my life anywhere near them.”