To this sneer Mr. Treffry made no answer, clucking to his horses. “My niece was born and bred a lady,” he said at last. “I ask you plainly What position have you got to give her?” “If she marries me,” said Harz, “she comes into my world. You think that I'm a common....” Mr. Treffry shook his head: “Answer my question, young man.” But the painter did not answer it, and silence fell. A light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent Harz to sleep. When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry's uneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw Dominique shuffling along at the horses' heads. He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up. A haze had begun to bathe the trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder. Mr. Treffry woke coughing. It was like some long nightmare, this interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in darkness. But suddenly the day broke. Heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over a chaos of lines and shadows, pale as mother-o'-pearl. The stars faded, and in a smouldering zigzag the dawn fled along the mountain tops, flinging out little isles of cloud. From a lake, curled in a hollow like a patch of smoke, came the cry of a water-bird. A cuckoo started a soft mocking; and close to the carriage a lark flew up. Beasts and men alike stood still, drinking in the air--sweet with snows and dew, and vibrating faintly with the running of the water and the rustling of the leaves. The night had played sad tricks with Mr. Nicholas Treffry; his hat was grey with dust; his cheeks brownish-purple, there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes, which stared painfully. “We'll call a halt,” he said, “and give the gees their grub, poor things. Can you find some water, Mr. Harz? There's a rubber bucket in behind. “Can't get about myself this morning; make that lazy fellow of mine stir his stumps.” Harz saw that he had drawn off one of his boots, and stretched the foot out on a cushion. “You're not fit to go farther,” he said; “you're ill.” “Ill!” replied Mr. Treffry; “not a bit of it!” Harz looked at him, then catching up the bucket, made off in search of water. When he came back the horses were feeding from an india-rubber trough slung to the pole; they stretched their heads towards the bucket, pushing aside each other's noses. The flame in the east had died, but the tops of the larches were bathed in a gentle radiance; and the peaks ahead were like amber. Everywhere were threads of water, threads of snow, and little threads of dewy green, glistening like gossamer.