“Kinder than Love is my true friend. 
  He’d die for me if that would end
  My sorrow.  Yes, would live for me—­
  Suffer and live unselfishly,
  And that for him would harder be
  Than at my feet to die for me.”

As she ceased she again encountered his steadfast gaze with a glance which said, “Have I not done you justice?”

He was satisfied, and felt that the presence of his relatives had secured a sweeter answer than might otherwise have been given—­an answer that contained all he could hope for then.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Muir, very discontentedly.

“What an appreciative remark, Henry!” said Madge, laughing.

“It was; and it expressed my views,” said the banker, dryly.  “Come, Mary, let us go home to supper.”

“Now, I think the song very pretty,” said Mary, “only there are no such people nowadays.”

As Madge followed with Graydon she continued laughing softly to herself.

“You are not hiding vexation at Henry?” Graydon asked.

“Oh, no, I understand Henry.  You think I am always hiding something.  You at least should have understood my song.”

“Yes, Madge,” he said, gravely, “and you also made it clear that you understood me.  I am content.”

She laughed, imitating the ejaculation.

“Henry’s ‘humph!’ was too rich for anything.  It meant volumes.  What sentimental fools he thinks us to be!”

“Henry could no more understand such a song than sing it,” was Graydon’s somewhat irritable response.

“No matter.  Such men are invaluable in the world.  My nature is very much in accord with Henry’s, and so far as he has had experience, he is very sound.”

“With your saving clause in mind, I agree with you perfectly about Henry, but not about yourself.  Your nature, Madge, like your voice, has a wide compass.”

With this one exception there was no other spoken reference during the remainder of the summer to the attitude toward her which he now maintained in thought and action.  The season was drawing to a close, and she had enjoyed the latter part of it beyond her fondest hopes and expectations.  She made a few congenial acquaintances at the hotel, and with them never wearied in exploring the paths that converged at the great caravansary, and in visiting the various outlooks from which the same wide landscapes presented ever-changing aspects.  Chief among these friends was a middle-aged artist, who was deeply imbued with the genius of the mountains, and who had no little skill in catching and idealizing the lovely effects he saw.  He proved her best guide, for he had long haunted the region, and the majority of the paths were due to his taste and explorations.  In such congenial tasks he acted as agent for the sagacious and liberal owner of the vast property, who was so wise that in his dealings with nature he employed one that loved and understood her.  To Madge the artist