at 8.15 a.m., and threw ourselves down on the sun-warmed rocks for a well-earned rest. While Graham investigated the contents of the rucksac preparatory to our second breakfast, I basked in the sun and examined my surroundings. The day was perfect, and a wonderful panorama unrolled itself to my delighted eyes. Mount Sefton's great white wall and the whole length of the Morehouse Range stretched away to our left; over a low saddle we could see a thick bank of clouds in Westland, which shut out our hoped-for view of the ocean. Everywhere else was clear—Mount Cook's three white peaks towered up across the valley in serene aloofness, in spite of the conquering foot of man on their pure snows. Through the Ball Pass loomed a sea of mountains at the head of the Tasman Glacier, while at our feet the Hooker River wound its way to join the Tasman, and both merged into a streak of silver, which flowed through yellow plains and was lost in the blue of Lake Pukaki.
After we had breakfasted, there being no hurry, we settled down on the rocks again. Soon a gentle snore announced that the chaperon was sleeping off his morning exertions. I lay with my hat tilted over my eyes, studying Mount Cook and weaving a fabric of dream and desire about the silvery summits. Presently I mildly suggested that Sealy had been a most enjoyable climb, but not as difficult as I had expected. Graham rose to the bait promptly and said it was considered difficult by most people, and added that I had done very well. By way of answer I pointed across the valley at Mount Cook, "Well enough to attempt that some day?" Breathlessly I awaited the answer. I thought I detected a smile in the voice that came from beneath the sheltering hat. "So that is the plan you have been hatching while I thought you asleep." "Oh, the plan was hatched long ago; it was merely the right moment for mentioning it I was looking for," I confessed. Quietly and earnestly we talked
