“So you see, Miss McDonald,” said Philip, “that writers cannot graft legends on the old stock.”

“That depends upon the writer,” returned the Scotch woman, shortly.  “I didn’t see the schoolgirl’s essay.”

When the luncheon was disposed of, with the usual adaptation to nomadic conditions, and the usual merriment and freedom of personal comment, and the wit that seems so brilliant in the open air and so flat in print, Mrs. Mavick declared that she was tired by the long climb and the unusual excitement.

“Perhaps it is the Pulpit,” she said, “but I am sleepy; and if you young people will amuse yourselves, I will take a nap under that tree.”

Presently, also, Alice and the governess withdrew to the edge of the precipice, and Evelyn and Philip were left to the burden of entertaining each other.  It might have been an embarrassing situation but for the fact that all the rest of the party were in sight, that the girl had not the least self-consciousness, having had no experience to teach her that there was anything to be timid about in one situation more than in another, and that Philip was so absolutely content to be near Evelyn and hear her voice that there was room for nothing else in his thought.  But rather to his surprise, Evelyn made no talk about the situation or the day, but began at once with something in her mind, a directness of mental operation that he found was characteristic of her.

“It seems to me, Mr. Burnett, that there is something of what Miss McDonald regards as the lack of legend and romance in this region in our life generally.”

“I fancy everybody feels that who travels much elsewhere.  You mean life seems a little thin, as the critics say?”

“Yes, lacks color and background.  But, you see, I have no experience.  Perhaps it’s owing to Miss McDonald.  I cannot get the plaids and tartans and Jacobins and castles and what-not out of my head.  Our landscapes are just landscapes.”

“But don’t you think we are putting history and association into them pretty fast?”

“Yes, I know, but that takes a long time.  I mean now.  Take this lovely valley and region, how easily it could be made romantic.”

“Not so very easy, I fancy.”

“Well, I was thinking about it last night.”  And then, as if she saw a clear connection between this and what she was going to say, “Miss McDonald says, Mr. Burnett, that you are a writer.”

“I?  Why, I’m, I’m—­a lawyer.”

“Of course, that’s business.  That reminds me of what papa said once:  ’It’s lucky there is so much law, or half the world, including the lawyers, wouldn’t have anything to do, trying to get around it and evade it.’  And you won’t mind my repeating it—­I was a mite of a girl—­I said, ‘Isn’t that rather sophistical, papa?’ And mamma put me down’—­It seems to me, child, you are using pretty big words.’”

They both laughed.  But suddenly Evelyn added: