It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs.

It was to this charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous inamorata.

She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart.

And she knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a few hours hence.

The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown; they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak and foreboding as they always had been before.
A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them.