There was a crowd on the platform.  Pretty “summer girls” with bare heads, over which they held parasols of bright green, or rose-red, that threw charming lights and shadows on their tanned faces:  brown young men in khaki knickerbockers, shaking hands with paler men just coming from town, and little children in white, laughing at sight of arriving “daddies”.

Soon Falconer, towering over most others, appeared with his sister by his side, and Carmen was pleased to see that Mrs. Harland’s clothes could not compare with hers.  Having no idea of suiting her costume to the country, she thought herself infinitely preferable in her Paris gown to Mrs. Harland in a cotton frock, and shady straw hat.  But no Nick was visible, and Carmen’s pleasure was dashed.

The brother and sister met her cordially, took her to look at the bubbling spring in its kiosk, and then up the height on the scenic railway.  Presently they landed on the level of the parklike plateau, where a big hotel and its attendant cottages were visible, with many golden dolomitic peaks and great white Shasta itself peeping through the trees.  Still nothing had been said about Nick; and Carmen dared not ask.  She feared some disappointment, and shrank from the blow.

Mariette had brought coffee to her mistress’s stateroom very early, but Carmen was not averse to the suggestion of breakfast at the hotel before motoring over the mountains.  As they ate, they talked of impersonal things:  the colony under the trees; the making of the mountain road; and Falconer told how Mount Shasta—­long ago named by Indians “Iska, the White”—­was the abode of the Great Spirit; and how, in old, old times, before the Indians, the sole inhabitants of the country were grizzly bears.  Carmen listened to the unfolding of the tale into a fantastic love-story, saying, “Oh!” or “How interesting!” at polite intervals.  Always she asked herself, “Where’s Nick?  Hasn’t he come yet?  Is it possible he’s been prevented from coming at all?” She tried to brace herself against disappointment and not show that she cared, but she turned red and white when Mrs. Harland said at last, “We’re so sorry Mr. Hilliard couldn’t be with us.  We both like him so much, and it would have been very nice to have him too, while you are at Rushing River Camp.”

“Oh, he couldn’t come!” Carmen echoed dully.

“No.  Isn’t it too bad?  We thought you’d know—­that he might have written——­”

“Perhaps he has, and I’ve missed the letter,” Carmen broke in, hating to let these strangers think her slighted by Hilliard.  “I’ve been in San Francisco two days.  But—­where is he?  On his way home?”

“I don’t quite know,” replied Mrs. Harland, rather evasively, it seemed.  And then she changed the subject.