get up, and be off before dawn; he put his things out ready, and filled his flask.  The moonlight that evening was more wonderful than ever, the mountains like great ghosts of themselves.  And she was up there at the hut, among them!  It was very long before he went to sleep, brooding over his injuries—­intending not to sleep at all, so as to be ready to be off at three o’clock.  At nine o’clock he woke.  His wrath was gone; he only felt restless and ashamed.  If, instead of flying out, he had made the best of it, he could have gone with them as far as the hut, could have stayed the night there.  And now he cursed himself for being such a fool and idiot.  Some little of that idiocy he could, perhaps, retrieve.  If he started for the hut at once, he might still be in time to meet them coming down, and accompany them home.  He swallowed his coffee, and set off.  He knew the way at first, then in woods lost it, recovered the right track again at last, but did not reach the hut till nearly two o’clock.  Yes, the party had made the ascent that morning—­they had been seen, been heard jodelling on the top.  Gewiss!  Gewiss!  But they would not come down the same way.  Oh, no!  They would be going home down to the West and over the other pass.  They would be back in house before the young Herr himself.

He heard this, oddly, almost with relief.  Was it the long walk alone, or being up there so high?  Or simply that he was very hungry?  Or just these nice friendly folk in the hut, and their young daughter with her fresh face, queer little black cloth sailor hat with long ribbons, velvet bodice, and perfect simple manners; or the sight of the little silvery-dun cows, thrusting their broad black noses against her hand?  What was it that had taken away from him all his restless feeling, made him happy and content? . . .  He did not know that the newest thing always fascinates the puppy in its gambols! . . .  He sat a long while after lunch, trying to draw the little cows, watching the sun on the cheek of that pretty maiden, trying to talk to her in German.  And when at last he said:  “Adieu!” and she murmured “Kuss die Hand.  Adieu!” there was quite a little pang in his heart. . . .  Wonderful and queer is the heart of a man! . . .  For all that, as he neared home he hastened, till he was actually running.  Why had he stayed so long up there?  She would be back—­she would expect to see him; and that young beast of a violinist would be with her, perhaps, instead!  He reached the hotel just in time to rush up and dress, and rush down to dinner.  Ah!  They were tired, no doubt—­were resting in their rooms.  He sat through dinner as best he could; got away before dessert, and flew upstairs.  For a minute he stood there doubtful; on which door should he knock?  Then timidly he tapped on hers.  No answer!  He knocked loud on his tutor’s door.  No answer!  They were not back, then.  Not back?  What could that mean?  Or could