So it was that Carmen got no chance glimpse of the two together, and had no suspicion that in the hotel register of the St. Francis was inscribed the name of Nickson Hilliard.  She shopped contentedly, and enjoyed looking at the prettily dressed women, because she saw none whom she thought as good-looking as herself.  Then, on the second evening, just as Angela and Nick were tearing down the rocky height known familiarly to San Francisco as “the mountain,” Carmen left for Shasta Springs.

It was early next morning after the long journey north, that the white pinnacle of Mount Shasta appeared floating in the sky above dark pines, and the rushing stream of the Sacramento, fed by eternal snows.  But Carmen hardly glanced out of her stateroom window at the hovering white glory, though her maid mentioned that Shasta was in sight.  Mrs. Harland and Falconer were both coming to meet her at the Springs station, and would motor her to Rushing River Camp by the fifty-mile road over the mountains.  Carmen hoped that Nick might be with them, though nothing had been said about him in the telegram they had sent.  In any case, her one care was to be beautiful after the night journey.  She took no interest in mountains and rivers.  Her whole soul was concentrated upon the freshness of her complexion and the angle of the mauve hat on her dark waved hair.  Never a good sleeper, she had been too feverish at the prospect of seeing Nick to do more than doze off for a few minutes in her berth; consequently, there were annoying brown shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks looked a little sallow; but Mariette was an accomplished maid, who had been with Carmen ever since the old theatrical days, and when Mrs. Gaylor was ready to leave her stateroom at Shasta Springs station she looked as bright-eyed and rosy as if she had slept without dreaming.  This effect was partly due to liquid rouge and bismuth, but largely to happy excitement—­a woman’s greatest beautifier.

Her heart was beating fast under embroidered, dove-coloured chiffon and pale gray Shantung, a dress too elaborate for a railway journey; and she had no eyes for the fairylike greenness of the place, the mountain-side shadowed by tall trees, or rocks clothed in delicate ferns and spouting forth white cascades.  The full, rich summer she had left at home in the South was early spring in the cool North.  The earth was like a bride, displaying her trousseau of lace, fall after fall of it, on green velvet cushions, and the gold of her dowry, the splendour of her wedding gifts, in a riot of flowers.  No money coined in mints could buy diamonds such as this bride had been given by her mother—­Nature; diamonds flashing in river and cascade upon cascade.  But Carmen Gaylor had no eyes for them.  She had merely a pleasant impression that Shasta Springs seemed to be a pretty place, and no wonder it was popular with millionaires, who built themselves houses up there on the height, in the forest!  But it was only a passing thought, as he alighted from the train in the welcoming music of many waters, which she hardly heard.  Her attention was centred on picking out Mrs. Harland and Falconer among the people who were waiting to meet friends, and on seeing whether Nick Hilliard was with them.