Then she went upstairs into the lobby and out into the street.
A cold, piercing air seemed to blow right through her.

Walking to the near corner, she paused to look around.

Down the main street flowed a leisurely stream of pedestrians, horses, cars, extending between two blocks of low buildings.

Across from where she stood lay a vacant lot, beyond which began a line of neat, oddly constructed houses, evidently residences of the town.

And then lifting her gaze, instinctively drawn by something obstructing the sky line, she was suddenly struck with surprise and delight.
"Oh! how perfectly splendid!" she burst out.
Two magnificent mountains loomed right over her, sloping up with majestic sweep of green and black timber, to a ragged tree-fringed snow area that swept up cleaner and whiter, at last to lift pure glistening peaks, noble and sharp, and sunrise-flushed against the blue.
Carley had climbed Mont Blanc and she had seen the Matterhorn, but they had never struck such amaze and admiration from her as these twin peaks of her native land.
"What mountains are those ?" she asked a passer-by.
"San Francisco Peaks, ma'am," replied the man.
"Why, they can't be over a mile away!" she said.
"Eighteen miles, ma'am," he returned, with a grin.