"The chances that belong only to the old countries? I am rather bored
with them!" said Elizabeth flippantly.

Delaine forced a smile.

"Poor Old World! I wonder if you will ever be fair to it again, or--or
to the people bound up with it!"

She looked at him, a little discomposed, and said, smiling:

"Wait till you meet me next in Rome!"

"Shall I ever meet you again in Rome?" he replied, under his breath, as
though involuntarily.

As he spoke he made a determined pause, a stone's throw from the
rippling stream that marks the watershed; and Elizabeth must needs pause
with him. Beyond the stream, Philip sat lounging among rugs and cushions
brought from the car, Anderson and the American beside him. Anderson's
fair, uncovered head and broad shoulders were strongly thrown out
against the glistening snows of the background. Upon the three typical
figures--the frail English boy--the Canadian--the spare New
Yorker--there shone an indescribable brilliance of light. The energy of
the mountain sunshine and the mountain air seemed to throb and quiver
through the persons talking--through Anderson's face, and his eyes fixed
upon Elizabeth--through the sunlit water--the sparkling grasses--the
shimmering spectacle of mountain and summer cloud that begirt them.

"Dear Mr. Arthur, of course we shall meet again in Rome!" said
Elizabeth, rosy, and not knowing in truth what to say. "This place has