THE MODEL The morning broke clear and still across the scented bush, and Miss Kinnaird and Ida Stirling, who had been awakened early by the wonderful freshness in the mountain air, strolled some distance out of camp.

For a time they wandered through shadowy aisles between the tremendous trunks, breathing in sweet resinous odors, and then, soon after the first sunrays came slanting across a mountain shoulder, they came out upon a head of rock above the river.

A hemlock had fallen athwart it, and they sat down where they could look out upon a majestic panorama of towering rock and snow.
Arabella Kinnaird gazed at it intently when she had shaken some of the dew from the frills and folds of her rather bedraggled skirt.
"It will never be quite the same again," she observed, evidently in reference to the latter, and then waved one hand as though to indicate the panorama, for she was usually voluble and disconnected in her conversation.

"This, as I said last night, is wonderful--in fact, it almost oppresses one.

It makes one feel so little, and I'm not sure that I like that, though no doubt it does one good." Her companion smiled.
"Aren't you going to paint it ?" she asked.
Miss Kinnaird pursed up her face, which was a trick she had.
"Oh," she said, "I don't know.