Sylvia was eighteen, nearly nineteen.

Had Gabriel Strood married just after that last season when he climbed from the Brenva Glacier to the Calotte.

The story was still not unraveled, and while he perplexed his fancies over the unraveling, the door opened, and a tall, thin man with a pointed beard stood upon the threshold.

He was a man of fifty years; his shoulders were just learning how to stoop; and his face, fine and delicate, yet lacking nothing of strength, wore an aspect of melancholy, as though he lived much alone--until he smiled.

And in the smile there was much companionship and love.