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Mr
.
Miles
was
silent
again
,
then
he
said
:
“
I
’
m
glad
you
’
re
coming
with
me
now
.
Perhaps
we
may
find
your
mother
alive
,
and
she
may
know
that
you
have
come
.
”
They
had
reached
Hamblin
,
where
the
snow
-
flurry
had
left
white
patches
in
the
rough
grass
on
the
roadside
,
and
in
the
angles
of
the
roofs
facing
north
.
It
was
a
poor
bleak
village
under
the
granite
flank
of
the
Mountain
,
and
as
soon
as
they
left
it
they
began
to
climb
.
The
road
was
steep
and
full
of
ruts
,
and
the
horse
settled
down
to
a
walk
while
they
mounted
and
mounted
,
the
world
dropping
away
below
them
in
great
mottled
stretches
of
forest
and
field
,
and
stormy
dark
blue
distances
.
Charity
had
often
had
visions
of
this
ascent
of
the
Mountain
but
she
had
not
known
it
would
reveal
so
wide
a
country
,
and
the
sight
of
those
strange
lands
reaching
away
on
every
side
gave
her
a
new
sense
of
Harney
’
s
remoteness
.
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
.
A
mile
or
two
farther
on
they
came
out
on
a
clearing
where
two
or
three
low
houses
lay
in
stony
fields
,
crouching
among
the
rocks
as
if
to
brace
themselves
against
the
wind
.
They
were
hardly
more
than
sheds
,
built
of
logs
and
rough
boards
,
with
tin
stove
-
pipes
sticking
out
of
their
roofs
.
The
sun
was
setting
,
and
dusk
had
already
fallen
on
the
lower
world
,
but
a
yellow
glare
still
lay
on
the
lonely
hillside
and
the
crouching
houses
.
The
next
moment
it
faded
and
left
the
landscape
in
dark
autumn
twilight
.
“
Over
there
,
”
Liff
called
out
,
stretching
his
long
arm
over
Mr
.
Miles
’
s
shoulder
.
The
clergyman
turned
to
the
left
,
across
a
bit
of
bare
ground
overgrown
with
docks
and
nettles
,
and
stopped
before
the
most
ruinous
of
the
sheds
.
A
stove
-
pipe
reached
its
crooked
arm
out
of
one
window
,
and
the
broken
panes
of
the
other
were
stuffed
with
rags
and
paper
.
In
contrast
to
such
a
dwelling
the
brown
house
in
the
swamp
might
have
stood
for
the
home
of
plenty
.
As
the
buggy
drew
up
two
or
three
mongrel
dogs
jumped
out
of
the
twilight
with
a
great
barking
,
and
a
young
man
slouched
to
the
door
and
stood
there
staring
.
In
the
twilight
Charity
saw
that
his
face
had
the
same
sodden
look
as
Bash
Hyatt
’
s
,
the
day
she
had
seen
him
sleeping
by
the
stove
.
He
made
no
effort
to
silence
the
dogs
,
but
leaned
in
the
door
,
as
if
roused
from
a
drunken
lethargy
,
while
Mr
.
Miles
got
out
of
the
buggy
.
