Her steps, unsteady at first, grew sure and determined; she drew longer, deeper breaths; the pink of a wild rose flushed her cheeks.  But Frederic, plodding abreast, laid his hand on her arm.

“See here,” he said, “you can’t keep this up; stop a minute.  They’ve got to wait for us.  George, that ambition of yours can spur you to the pace.  Never saw so much spirit done up in a small package.  Go off, sometime, like Fourth o’ July fireworks.”  He chuckled, looking down at her with admiration in his round eyes.  “Like you for it, though.  George, it’s just that has made you worth waiting for.”

She gave him a quick glance and, setting her alpenstock, sprang from his detaining hand.

“See, they have reached the summit,” she called.  “They are waiting already for us.  And see!” she exclaimed tensely, as he struggled after her.  “It is going to be grand.”

A vast company of peaks began to lift, tier on tier like an amphitheater, above the rim of the dome, while far eastward, as they cross-cut the rounding incline, stretched those tawny mountains that had the appearance of strange and watchful beasts, guarding the levels of the desert, bare of snow.  Glimpses there were of the blue Columbia, the racy Wenatchee, but Weatherbee’s pocket was closed.  Then, presently, as they gained the summit, it was no longer an amphitheater into which they looked, but a billowing sea of cloud, out of which rose steep and inhospitable shores.  Then, everywhere, far and away, shone opal-shaded islands of mystery.

“Oh,” she said, with a little, sighing breath, “these are the Isles of the Blest.  We have come through the Everlasting Door into the better country.”

She stood looking off in rapture, but the man saw only the changing lights in her face.  He turned a little, taking in the charm of pose, the lift of chin, parted lips, hand shading softly shining eyes.  After a moment he answered:  “Wish we had.  Wish every other man you knew was left out, on the other side of the door.”

Her hand fell, she gave him her sweeping look and moved to join the waiting group.

Banks came to meet them.  “We’ve stayed to the limit; my, yes, it’s the last call,” he explained in his tense key.  “There’s a couple of places we don’t want to see ourselves caught in when the thaw strikes.  And they’re getting a heavy rain down at the Springs now; likely up at the tunnel it’s snow or hail.”  He paused, turning to send a final glance into the mist, then said:  “Less than ten minutes ago I had a sight of that train, but you see now she’s wiped off the map.  It’ll be a close race, my, yes.  Give me that stick, ma’am; you can make better time on the down-grade holding on to me.”

With this, he offered his able hand to Mrs. Weatherbee and, followed by the rest of the party, helped her swiftly down the slope.  But clearly his mind was on the stalled train.  “Likely, hugging the mountainside, they don’t see how the snow crowds overhead,” he said.  “And I’d ought to have taken time to run over and give ’em a tip.  I’m going to, I’m going to, soon’s I get you down to that old railroad track where you can make it alone.”