"Then we will go to Chamonix."

They spent the afternoon drifting about in a
little sailing boat. The beautiful lake produced
far less impression upon Arthur than the gray and
muddy Arve. He had grown up beside the Mediterranean,
and was accustomed to blue ripples;
but he had a positive passion for swiftly moving
water, and the hurried rushing of the glacier
stream delighted him beyond measure. "It is so
much in earnest," he said.

Early on the following morning they started for
Chamonix. Arthur was in very high spirits while
driving through the fertile valley country; but
when they entered upon the winding road near
Cluses, and the great, jagged hills closed in around
them, he became serious and silent. From St. Martin
they walked slowly up the valley, stopping to
sleep at wayside chalets or tiny mountain villages,
and wandering on again as their fancy directed.
Arthur was peculiarly sensitive to the influence of
scenery, and the first waterfall that they passed
threw him into an ecstacy which was delightful to
see; but as they drew nearer to the snow-peaks
he passed out of this rapturous mood into one of
dreamy exaltation that Montanelli had not seen
before. There seemed to be a kind of mystical relationship
between him and the mountains. He