the rushing, icy river, the cheerful smell of wood smoke, the goats
that in the early morning wake one with the tinkle-tinkle of the bells
through the street, and the quiet-eyed guides that sit on the wall in
the twilight and smoke the pipe of peace.

After dinner, that first night, we walked through the village and
along the winding path that leads up to the Schwarzsee, and gazed at
the mighty peak, so wild, so savage in the pale purple light that
follows the sunset glow--gazed at it in silence, John wrapped in
adoration, I thinking of the men who had gone up this road to their
death.

"Yes," said John, as we turned back, "some very scared men have come
down this road."

If he had known what an exceedingly scared girl was at his side he
wouldn't, I think, have chosen that moment to turn into the little
graveyard that surrounds the village chapel, to look at the graves
of the victims--the graves of Croz the guide, of Hudson, and the boy
Hadow. The text on one stone caught my eye--"_Be ye therefore also
ready..._" It was too much; I fled back to the hotel, locked the door
of my room, shuttered the windows so that I should not see the vestige
of a mountain--and wept.

It is odd to think how I hated it all that night, how to myself
I maligned all climbers, calling them in my haste
foolhardy--senseless--imbecile, when I had only to go up my first easy
mountain to become as keen as the worst--or the best.

Sometimes in those mountaineering excursions with John to Zermatt,