Madge and Graydon reached the summit without any great difficulty, Mary having returned with the assurance that they would find their own way back to the hotel.

As the hours passed, Graydon began to gather more hope than he had dared to entertain since his shattered theory had so disheartened him.  In spite of his fancied knowledge about Madge, it was hard to believe she was very unhappy that morning.  There was an elasticity to her step, a ring of genuine gladness in her tones and laugh, which did not suggest that she was consciously carrying a heavy burden.

“She certainly is the bravest and most unselfish girl I ever imagined,” he thought, as they left the highest point after enjoying the view.  “With an art so inimitable as to be artless, she has tried to give me enjoyment.  Instead of regarding herself as one to be entertained, she has been pouring forth words, fancies, snatches of song like sparkling wine, and I am exhilarated instead of being wearied.”

When at last they found a spring at which to eat their lunch, he told her so, concluding, “This mountain air does you good, Madge.”

“So do you,” she replied, with a piquant nod.  “Don’t be conceited when I tell you that you are good company.”

“No; but I can’t help being happy.”

“Oh, indeed!  It doesn’t seem to take much to make you happy.”

“Not very much from you.”

“Pass me a biscuit, Graydon; I want something more substantial than fine speeches after our climb.  Isn’t all this truly Arcadian—­this mossy rug on which we have placed our lunch, the trees whispering about us overhead, and the spring there bubbling over with something concerning which it murmurs so contentedly?”

“I wonder what they think of us!  I can imagine one thing.”

“You are always imagining.  The idea of your being a banker!  Well, there is a loud whisper from the trees.  What was remarked?”

“That yonder little girl doesn’t look so very unhappy.”

“No, Graydon,” she said, earnestly, “you make Saturdays and Sundays very bright to me.  No girl ever had a truer friend than you are becoming.”

“Have become, Madge.”

“Graydon,” she said, eagerly, as if hastening from dangerous ground, “the hotel is there just opposite to us.  Don’t you think we could scramble down the mountain here, and return by Kaaterskill Clove and the Falls?  It would be such fun, and save such a very long distance!”

“We’ll try it,” he said.

“Come,” she resumed, brusquely, “you are spoiling me.  You say yes to everything.  If you don’t think it safe or best you must not humor me.”

“We can soon learn whether it’s safe and practicable, and there is no danger of losing our way.  We have only to return over the mountain in order to strike the path somewhere at right angles.”

“Let us hasten, then.  I am in the mood to end our sojourn in the Catskills by an hour or two of contact with nature absolutely primitive.  The scenes we shall pass through will be so pleasant to think of by a winter fire.”