“I wish they were intelligent enough to be led in the middle of the path,” said Miss Ruth, “but I suppose the guide knows.”

“You may trust to him; he is a person of varied accomplishments, the chief of which is he doesn’t understand a word of English.  So you can scold, or say anything you like, without the least reserve.  I picked him out for that,” added Lynde, with a bland smile.  “His comrade was a linguist.”

“If I have anything disagreeable to say,” replied Miss Ruth, with another bland smile, “I shall say it in French.”

The guide, who spoke four languages, including English, never changed a muscle.  Lynde, just before starting, had closely examined the two guides on their lingual acquirements—­and retained the wrong man.

“I trust you will have no occasion, Miss Denham, to be anything but amiable, and that you will begin by granting me a favor.  Will you?”

“Cela depend.”

“There you go into French!  I haven’t offended you?”

“Oh, no.  What is the favor?—­in English.”

“That you will let me call you Miss Ruth, instead of Miss Denham.”

“I haven’t the slightest objection, Mr. Lynde.”

“And now I want you”—­

“What, another favor?”

“Of course.  Who ever heard of one favor?”

“To be sure!  What is the second?”

“I want that you should be a little sorry when all this comes to an end.”

“You mean when we leave Chamouni?”

“Yes.”

“I shall be sorry then,” said Miss Ruth frankly, “but I am not going to be sorry beforehand.”

There was something very sweet to Lynde in her candor, but there was also something that restrained him for the moment from being as explicit as he had intended.  He rode on awhile without speaking, watching the girl as the mule now and then turned the sharp angle of the path and began a new ascent.  This movement always brought her face to face with him a moment—­she on the grade above, and he below.  Miss Ruth had grown accustomed to the novel situation, and no longer held on by the pommel of the saddle.  She sat with her hands folded in her lap, pliantly lending herself to the awkward motion of the animal.  Over her usual travelling-habit she had thrown the long waterproof which reached to her feet.  As she sat there in a half-listless attitude, she was the very picture of the Queen of Sheba seated upon Deacon Twombly’s mare.  Lynde could not help seeing it; but he was schooling himself by degrees to this fortuitous resemblance.  It was painful, but it was inevitable, and he would get used to it in time.  “Perhaps,” he mused, “if I had never had that adventure with the poor insane girl, I might not have looked twice at Miss Denham when we met—­and loved her.  It was the poor little queen who shaped my destiny, and I oughtn’t to be ungrateful.”  He determined to tell the story to Miss Ruth some time when a fitting occasion offered.