"And such a sky!" said Sheila, lifting her head, "and such big pines!" She lost herself for a minute in the azure immensity above. A vast mosque of cloud, dome bubbles great and small, stood ahead of them, dwarfing every human experience of height. "Mr. Thatcher, there isn't any air up here. What is it we're trying to breathe, anyway?"
He smiled patiently, sympathetically, and handed her a tin mug of icy water from the little trickling spring. The bruise of Hudson's kiss ached at the cold touch of the water and a shadow fell over her excitement. She thanked the driver gravely.
"What time is it now?" she asked.
"Past noon. Better eat your sandwich."
She took one from its wrapping pensively, but ate it with absent-minded eagerness. Thatcher's blue eyes twinkled.
"Seems like I recollect a lady that didn't want no food to be put in for her."
"I remember her, too," said Sheila, between bites, "but very, very vaguely."
She stood up after a third sandwich, shook crumbs from her skirt, and stretched her arms. "What a great sleep I've had! Since six o'clock!" She stared down at the lower world. "I've left somebody at Millings."
"Who's that?" asked Thatcher, drawling the words a trifle as a Westerner does when he is conscious of a double meaning.
"Me."