On the day after Tom’s adventure with the Indian, Mr. Percival visited the old ledge with his men, and placing a charge of blasting powder in the mouth of the cave, tumbled the overhanging rocks together in such a way that the passage was closed forever. The boy slowly regained his cheerfulness, and, rather shyly, took part in the pleasuring of the rest.
Only two days now remained before the party was to break up.
There was little time for story-telling, for the girls were busy, packing various collections of ferns, moss, and other memorials of their good times in field and forest; and their kind host was occupied from morning till night, in overseeing the fall work on the farm.
One evening, however, as they were sitting under one of the aged elms, near the house, the conversation turned upon mountains and mountain climbing.
“Did you and that boy—wasn’t his name Fred?—ever have any more adventures together?” asked Pet.
“Oh, yes, a good many, my dear. If you’re not too sleepy, I can tell you about a bit of a dangerous climb I once had myself, when we two were abroad together.”
The moonlight rested softly on the little circle, and on uncle Will’s face, as he talked. Pet put her hand in his, and begged him to go on. It was their last story for the summer.
“We were both pretty well tired out, one July evening when we reached Chamounix. Fred could bear mountain-climbing, and, what was worse, mule-back riding, much better than I, so that, while I was glad to find my way to my room, in the top of the queer old hotel, at an early hour in the evening, Fred remained in the parlor, busily studying up maps and guides for an excursion over the Mer de Glace to the ‘Garden,’ a small, fertile spot, surrounded by eternal ice, in the very heart of the mountains.
QUIET MOMENTS.