This was the first time Mary Garland had asked Rowland a question which it was in Roderick's power to answer, the first time she had frankly betrayed Roderick's reticence.

Rowland ventured to think it marked an era.
The next morning was sultry, and the air, usually so fresh at those altitudes, was oppressively heavy.

Rowland lounged on the grass a while, near Singleton, who was at work under his white umbrella, within view of the house; and then in quest of coolness he wandered away to the rocky ridge whence you looked across at the Jungfrau.

To-day, however, the white summits were invisible; their heads were muffled in sullen clouds and the valleys beneath them curtained in dun-colored mist.

Rowland had a book in his pocket, and he took it out and opened it.