The August day was warm and radiantly bright. We were in an express
train going south, on our way to visit those cousins whom we had never
seen.

"Oh! but that one! See! See!" I exclaimed triumphantly, as my eyes spied
an elevation towering above others; it was one whose blue height pierced
the clear horizon.

She leaned forward.

"Ah!" she said, "that is a little more like a mountain, I must
confess,--but it isn't a very high one, only wait!"

At the hotel, where we were obliged to remain until the following day,
everything interested us. I remember that night came suddenly, a night
of splendor, as we leaned upon the railing of the balcony leading from
our rooms, watching the shadows gather about the blue mountains and
listening to the chirping of the crickets.

The next day, the third of our frequently interrupted journey, we hired
a funny little carriage to take us to the town, one much out of the line
of travel at that time, where our cousins lived.

For five hours we rode through passes and defiles--for me they were
enchanted hours. Not only was there the novelty of the mountains, but
everything here was unlike our home surroundings. The soil and the
rocks were a bright red instead of, as in our village, a dazzling white
because of the underlying chalk beds. And at home everything was flat
and low, it seemed as if nothing there dared lift itself above the dead