"You poor fellows," she said gently. "You are nearly starved."
It is agreeable to be sympathized with by a tall, fair, fresh young girl. We looked up, simpering gratefully.
"This is really a most lovely little lake," she said, gazing out across the still, crystalline water which was all rose and gold in the sunset, save where the sombre shapes of the towering mountains were mirrored in glassy depths.
"It's odd," I said, "that no trout are jumping. There ought to be lots of them there, and this is their jumping hour."
We all looked at the quiet, oval bit of water. Not a circle, not the slightest ripple disturbed it.
"It must be deep," remarked Brown.
We gazed up at the three lofty peaks, the bases of which were the shores of this tiny gem among lakes. Deep, deep, plunging down into dusky profundity, the rocks fell away sheer into limpid depths.
"That little lake may be a thousand feet deep," I said. "In 1903 Professor Farrago, of Bronx Park, measured a lake in the Thunder Mountains, which was two thousand seven hundred and sixty-nine feet deep."
Miss White looked at me curiously.
Into a patch of late sunshine flitted a small butterfly—one of the Grapta species. It settled on a chip of wood, uncoiled its delicate proboscis, and spread its fulvous and deeply indented wings.