its marking-stone of white quartz. He was just turning to the north, when he heard a clamoring voice hailing him from behind, and as he looked down the Dingle Dell trail in the direction from which the hail came, he saw some one—a very puffy and disheveled some one—who called to him in no uncertain terms. This one announced at the top of his lungs, as he toiled upwards, that he was lost. He summoned the wayfarer above him to stop and tell him where he was. He made parenthetical and emphatic comments on so-called paths that did not exist—as far as he was concerned. He implied that they were unworthy of any dictionary interpretation of the name.
The climber waited sympathetically. The toiler mounted, still puffily ejaculating, till he gained the rise where the other stood at attention, and gasped out further explanations.
He had arrived last evening, late. He had never been here before, but he had often seen the mountain from a distance and
