There was mist everywhere. On the winding bed of the river,
lying piled like a gray eider-down coverlet; folding itself
over the forest trees; floating up to the Mountain House, and
hanging about the rocks. But overhead the sky looked bright,
and Sirius waved his torch which the vapour had filled with
coloured lights. As yet sunrise was not.

In front of the house, where a grey rock started from the very
edge of the bank, spreading a platform above the precipice,
sat Wych Hazel; her feet so nearly over the rock that they
seemed resting on the mist itself; her white scarf falling
back from her head like a wreath of lighted coloured vapour.
Perhaps there were no other strangers to the Mountain House
within its walls; perhaps the morning was too chill; perhaps
all of the 'candidates' were on the other side; for she sat
alone. Until the flaming torch of Sirius paled, until the dawn
began to shimmer and gleam among the fleeces of mist,--until
they parted here and there before the arrows of light, showing
spires and houses and a bit of the river in the far distance.
So fair, unfeatured, misty and sparkling at once, lay life
before the young gazer. Mr. Falkirk might have moralized thus,
standing close behind her as he was, still and silent; but it
is not likely he did; useless moralizing was never in Mr.
Falkirk's way.

'How do you like your fortune, Miss Hazel, as you find it at
present?' he said.

'Very undefined, sir. Good morning, Mr. Falkirk--what made you