CHAPTER IV.
IDA'S FIRST ASCENT The party had spent another day or two beside the lake when, one drowsy afternoon, Kinnaird, who sat on the hot, white shingle by the water's edge, with a pair of glasses in his hand, sent for Weston.
Miss Kinnaird and Ida Stirling were seated among the boulders not far away.
"I understand that the river bends around the range, and the crest of the first rise seems no great height," he said.

"There is evidently--a bench I think you call it--before you come to the snow, and the ascent should be practicable for a lady.

Take these glasses and look at it." Weston, who took the glasses, swept them along the hillside across the lake.

It rose very steeply from the water's edge, but the slope was uniform, and as a good deal of it consisted apparently of lightly-covered rock and gravel the pines were thinner, and there was less undergrowth than usual.

Far above him the smooth ascent broke off abruptly, and, though he could not see beyond the edge, there certainly appeared to be a plateau between it and the farther wall of rock and snow.
"I think one could get up so far without very much trouble, sir," he said.
"That," replied Kinnaird, "is how it strikes me.