With my head pressed against the glass in the door of the railway coach that was going rapidly I continually asked my sister, who sat opposite: "Are we in the mountains yet ?" "Not yet," she would answer, still remembering the Alps vividly.

"Not yet, dear.

Those are only high hills." 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.