She knew he must be miles and miles beyond the last
range of hills that seemed to be the outmost verge of things, and she
wondered how she had ever dreamed of going to New York to find him....
As the road mounted the country grew bleaker, and they drove across
fields of faded mountain grass bleached by long months beneath the snow.
In the hollows a few white birches trembled, or a mountain ash lit its
scarlet clusters; but only a scant growth of pines darkened the granite
ledges. The wind was blowing fiercely across the open slopes; the horse
faced it with bent head and straining flanks, and now and then the buggy
swayed so that Charity had to clutch its side.
Mr. Miles had not spoken again; he seemed to understand that she wanted
to be left alone. After a while the track they were following forked,
and he pulled up the horse, as if uncertain of the way. Liff Hyatt
craned his head around from the back, and shouted against the wind:
"Left----" and they turned into a stunted pine-wood and began to drive
down the other side of the Mountain.
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