slipping on the crisp hill grass now and then. By and by they plunged
into tangled heather on a bolder ridge, rent by black gullies, down
which at times wild torrents poured. This did not trouble either of the
men, who were used to forcing a passage over more rugged hillsides and
through leagues of matted brush, but Vane was surprised at the ease with
which Evelyn threaded her way across the heath. She wore a short skirt
and stout laced boots, and he noticed the supple grace of her movements
and the delicate color the wind had brought into her face. It struck him
that she had somehow changed since they had left the valley. She seemed
to have flung off something, and her laugh had a gay ring; but, while she
smiled and chatted with him, he was still conscious of a subtle reserve
in her manner.

Climbing still, they reached the haunts of the cloudberries and brushed
through broad patches of the snowy blossoms that open their gleaming
cups among the moss and heather. Vane gathered a handful and gave them
to Evelyn.

"You should wear these. They grow only far up on the heights."

She flashed a swift glance at him, but she smiled as she drew the fragile
stalks through her belt, and he felt that had it been permissible he
could have elaborated the idea in his mind. They are stainless flowers,
passionlessly white, that grow beyond the general reach of man, where the
air is keen and pure; and, in spite of her graciousness, there was a
coldness and a calm, which instead of repelling appealed to him strongly,
about this girl. Mabel laughed mischievously.

"If you want to give me flowers, it had better be marsh-marigolds," she
said. "They grow low down where it's slushy--but they blaze."