pines surged, heaved, rode in giant crests, stretched and lost itself
in the ghostly, snow-peaked horizon. The thronging woods choked every
defile, swept every crest, filled every valley with its dark-green
tilting spears, and left only Table Mountain sunlit and bare. Here and
there were profound olive depths, over which the gray hawk hung lazily,
and into which blue jays dipped. A faint, dull yellowish streak marked
an occasional watercourse; a deeper reddish ribbon, the mountain road
and its overhanging murky cloud of dust.

"Is it quite safe here?" asked Mrs. Sol, eying the little cabin. "I mean
from storms?"

"It never blows up here," replied Rand, "and nothing happens."

"It must be lovely," said Euphemia, clasping her hands.

"It IS that," said Rand proudly. "It's four years since Ruth and I took
up this yer claim, and raised this shanty. In that four years we haven't
left it alone a night, or cared to. It's only big enough for two, and
them two must be brothers. It wouldn't do for mere pardners to live here
alone,--they couldn't do it. It wouldn't be exactly the thing for man
and wife to shut themselves up here alone. But Ruth and me know
each other's ways, and here we'll stay until we've made a pile. We
sometimes--one of us--takes a pasear to the Ferry to buy provisions; but
we're glad to crawl up to the back of old 'Table' at night."

"You're quite out of the world here, then?" suggested Mrs. Sol.

"That's it, just it! We're out of the world,--out of rows, out of
liquor, out of cards, out of bad company, out of temptation. Cussedness