"There I am, more nearly," she pointed to them; "they're ever so much
nearer my disposition. But about this thin air; it must make men work
harder for what comes easier back in our country, so that they may
become able to do more--more capable. I am thinking of your
grandfather. You don't know how much I admire him. He is so stanch and
strong and fresh. There's more fire in him now than in my father or
Launton Oldaker, and I dare say he's a score of years older than either
of them. I don't think you quite appreciate what a great old fellow he
is."

"I admire Uncle Peter much more, I'm sure, than he admires me. He's
afraid I'm not strong enough to admire that Eastern climate of
yours--social and moral."

"I suppose it's natural for you to wish to go. You'd be bored here,
would you not? You couldn't stay in these mountains and be such a man
as your grandfather. And yet there ought to be so much to do here; it's
all so fresh and roomy and jolly. Really I've grown enthusiastic about
it."

"Ah, but think of what there is in the East--and you are there. To
think that for six months I've treasured every little memory of
you--such a funny little lot as they were--to think that this morning I
awoke thinking of you, yet hardly hoping ever to see you, and to think
that for half the night we had ridden so near each other in sleep, and
there was no sign or signal or good omen. And then to think you should
burst upon me like some new sunrise that the stupid astronomers hadn't
predicted.