“What do you see?” asked Smythe, as soon as his lungs would consent to speech.

“My mountain,” she answered, without turning her head.

“Which is that?”

“Thunder Mountain.”

“Umph! You’re welcome to it!”

She was silent.

“Why your mountain?” he asked presently.

“I don’t know.”

“But there must be a reason––or something.”

“That’s just it––something. It’s hideous, but it fascinates me. I can’t help thinking that––”