“Fog!” Hippy laughed heartily. “Why, child, that isn’t fog—it is clouds. We are above them, but I think they will rise and take us in. When it gets a little darker here, you will see a sight that will interest you.”
Hippy’s prediction was fulfilled. The moon rose full at about nine o’clock that evening, and exclamations of wonder were uttered by the girls of the party, as its beams lighted up the slowly moving clouds that now had risen almost level with the top of the ridge itself. Here and there sharp peaks thrust themselves through the cloud seas, which were dark and menacing to the eyes of the observers.
“How beautiful,” murmured Elfreda Briggs.
“It is indeed,” breathed Grace. “The scene reminds me of the one that we looked down upon when we were riding the Old Apache Trail, except that this is infinitely more beautiful. Hippy, does not this remind you of France, when you were flying above the clouds?”
“In a way, yes. Many is the time that I have gone to sleep on a cloud for a few seconds. Tom, what is our altitude here?” he asked, turning to his companion.
“According to my aneroid, about eight thousand feet.”
“We are surely getting up in the world,” chuckled Emma.
“Don’t congratulate yourself too soon, Miss Dean. We may be going the other way before morning,” reminded Stacy Brown. “What about starting a conflagration, Captain Gray?”
“Woo, stir up the campfire and let’s have some light and warmth,” directed Tom.
“Oh, it is too bad to destroy this wonderful view. If you build a fire we shan’t be able to see the full cloud effect,” protested Grace.