It's tremendous." The smallest of the pines rose two hundred feet above her; and they ran up until they dwindled to insignificance far aloft at the foot of a great scarp of rock that rose beyond them for a thousand feet or so and then gave place in turn to climbing fields of snow.
The girl, who was an artist, drew in her breath.
"Switzerland and Norway.

It's like them both--and yet it grips you harder than either," she added.

"I suppose it's because there are no hotels, or steamers.

Probably very few white people have ever been here before." "I really don't think many have," said Ida Stirling.
Then Miss Kinnaird laughed softly as she glanced at her attire.
"I must take off these fripperies.

They're out of key," she said.