“Instead of snow and roses you’re strawberries and cream,” he said—­“and it’s just as fetching, Valerie.  How are you, anyway?”

“Barely able to sit up and take nourishment,” she admitted, demurely. “...  I don’t think you look particularly vigorous,” she added, more seriously.  “You are brown but thin.”

“Thin as a scorched pancake,” he nodded.  “The ocean was like a vast plate of clam soup in which I simmered several times a day until I’ve become as leathery and attenuated as a punctured pod of kelp....  Where’s the rig we depart in, Valerie?” he concluded, looking around the sun-scorched, wooden platform with smiling interest.

“I drove down to meet you in a buck-board.”

“Splendid!  Is there room for my suit case?”

“Plenty.  I brought yards of rope.”

They walked to the rear of the station where buckboard and horse stood tethered to a tree.  He fastened his suit case to the rear of the vehicle, swathing it securely in, fathoms of rope; she sprang in, he followed; but she begged him to let her drive, and pulled on a pair of weather-faded gloves with a business-like air which was enchanting.

So he yielded seat and rusty reins to her; whip in hand, she steered the fat horse through the wilderness of arriving and departing carriages of every rural style and description—­stages, surreys, mountain-waggons, buck-boards—­drove across the railroad track, and turned up a mountain road—­a gradual ascent bordered heavily by blackberry, raspberry, thimble berry and wild grape, and flanked by young growths of beech and maple set here and there with hemlock and white pine.  But the characteristic foliage was laurel and rhododendron—­endless stretches of the glossy undergrowth fringing every woodland, every diamond-clear water-course.

“It must be charming when it’s in blossom,” he said, drawing the sweet air of the uplands deep into his lungs.  “These streams look exceedingly like trout, too.  How high are we?”

“Two thousand feet in the pass, Kelly.  The hills are much higher.  You need blankets at night....”  She turned her head and smilingly considered him: 

“I can’t yet believe you are here.”

“I’ve been trying to realise it, too.”

“Did you come in your favourite cloud?”

“No; on an exceedingly dirty train.”

“You’ve a cinder mark on your nose.”

“Thanks.”  He gave her his handkerchief and she wiped away the smear.

“How long can you stay?—­Oh, don’t answer!  Please forget I asked you.  When you’ve got to go just tell me a few minutes before your departure....  The main thing in life is to shorten unhappiness as much as possible.  That is Rita’s philosophy.”

“Is Rita well?”

“Perfectly—­thanks to your bonbons.  She doesn’t precisely banquet on the fare here—­poor dear!  But then,” she added, philosophically, “what can a girl expect on eight dollars a week?  Besides, Rita has been spoiled.  I am not unaccustomed to fasting when what is offered does not interest me.”