But when the sound of her companions’ voices died away, and their figures were swallowed up in the darkness behind the snow, she forgot all this, and much else that was mundane and frivolous, in the impressive and majestic solitude which seemed to descend upon her from the obscurity above.

At first it was accompanied with a slight thrill of vague fear, but this passed presently into that profound peace which the mountains alone can give their lonely or perturbed children.  It seemed to her that Nature was never the same, on the great plains where men and cities always loomed into such ridiculous proportions, as when the Great Mother raised herself to comfort them with smiling hillsides, or encompassed them and drew them closer in the loving arms of her mountains.  The long white canada stretched before her in a purity that did not seem of the earth; the vague bulk of the mountains rose on either side of her in a mystery that was not of this life.  Yet it was not oppressive; neither was its restfulness and quiet suggestive of obliviousness and slumber; on the contrary, the highly rarefied air seemed to give additional keenness to her senses; her hearing had become singularly acute; her eyesight pierced the uttermost extremity of the gorge, lit by the full moon that occasionally shone through slowly drifting clouds.  Her nerves thrilled with a delicious sense of freedom and a strange desire to run or climb.  It seemed to her, in her exalted fancy, that these solitudes should be peopled only by a kingly race, and not by such gross and material churls as this mountaineer who helped them.  And, I grieve to say,—­writing of an idealist that was, and a heroine that is to be,—­she was getting outrageously hungry.

There were a few biscuits in her traveling-bag, and she remembered that she had been presented with a small jar of California honey at San Jose.  This she took out and opened on the seat before her, and spreading the honey on the biscuits, ate them with a keen schoolgirl relish and a pleasant suggestion of a sylvan picnic in spite of the cold.  It was all very strange; quite an experience for her to speak of afterwards.  People would hardly believe that she had spent an hour or two, all alone, in a deserted wagon in a mountain snow pass.  It was an adventure such as one reads of in the magazines.  Only something was lacking which the magazines always supplied,—­something heroic, something done by somebody.  If that awful-looking mountaineer—­that man with the long hair and mustache, and that horrible gold ring,—­why such a ring?—­was only different!  But he was probably gorging beefsteak or venison with her father and Mr. Waterhouse,—­men were always such selfish creatures!—­and had quite forgotten all about her.  It would have been only decent for them to have brought her down something hot; biscuits and honey were certainly cloying, and somehow didn’t agree with the temperature.  She was really half starved!  And much they cared!  It would just serve them right if something did happen to her,—­or seem to happen to her,—­if only to frighten them.  And the pretty face that was turned up in the moonlight wore a charming but decided pout.