“But Miss Ruth”—­

“Mr. Lynde,” she said, interrupting him, “it was solely to your friendship that my aunt confided me to-day.  I should be deceiving her if I allowed you to speak as—­as you were speaking.”

Lynde saw his mistake.  He should have addressed himself in the first instance to the aunt.  He had been lacking in proper regard for the convenances, forgetting that Ruth’s education had been different from that of American girls.  At home, if you love a girl you tell her so; over here, you go and tell her grandmother.  Lynde dropped his head and remained silent, resolving to secure an interview with Mrs. Denham that night if possible.  After a moment or two he raised his face.  “Miss Ruth,” said he, “if I had to choose, I would rather be your friend than any other woman’s lover.”

“That is settled, then,” she returned, with heightened color.  “We will not refer to this again;” and she brushed away a butterfly that was fluttering about her conceitedly in its new golden corselet.

Meanwhile the guide marched on stolidly with Ruth’s reins thrown loosely over the crook of his elbow.  In his summer courses up and down the mountain, the man, with his four languages, had probably assisted dumbly at much fugitive love-making and many a conjugal passage-at-arms.  He took slight note of the conversation between the two young folks; he was clearly more interested in a strip of black cloud that had come within the half hour and hung itself over the Aiguille du Dru.

The foot-path and the bridle-road from Chamouni unite at the Caillet, a spring of fresh water halfway up the mountain.  There the riders dismounted and rested five or six minutes at a rude hut perched like a brown bird under the cliff.

“I’ve the fancy to go on foot the rest of the distance,” Lynde remarked, as he assisted Ruth into the saddle again.

“Then I’ll let you lead the mule, if you will,” said Ruth.  “I’m not the least afraid.”

“That is an excellent idea!  Why did you not think of it sooner?  I shall expect a buonamano, like a real guide, you know.”

“I will give it you in advance,” she said gayly, reaching forward and pretending to hold a coin between her thumb and finger.

Lynde caught her hand and retained it an instant, but did not dare to press it.  He was in mortal fear of a thing which he could have crushed like a flower in his palm.

The young man drew the reins over his arm and moved forward, glancing behind him at intervals to assure himself that his charge was all right.  As they approached the summit of the mountain the path took abrupter turns, and was crossed in numberless places by the channels of winter avalanches, which had mown down great pines as if they had been blades of grass.  Here and there a dry water-course stretched like a wrinkle along the scarred face of the hill.

“Look at that, Miss Ruth!” cried Lynde, checking the mule and pointing to a slope far below them.