CHAPTER X.
THE SILVER CONE
“Spirit of ice and snow,
Goddess, whose hands are laid
Upon the brows of men who needs must go
To seek thy loneliness, immortal maid,
Within thy fastness of thy frozen place;
Dost thou their toil behold?
Thine heart is dull with cold,
Cold is thy shrine, and colder thine embrace.”
As we rode to the door Mrs. Macpherson was just carrying two pails of glorious new milk from the cowshed, and Mr. Macpherson was saddling his mare; the children all came running to see the start, and the Lone Shieling looked very homely, and not at all lonely, under the flood of sunshine—for, indeed, the sun seemed to be trying to make amends for the days of storm. I had a cupful of new milk out of the pails. Duncan tied on the lunch bag, and we were off. Tom had lost a hind shoe, and the rough track was very trying; but, led by Mr. Macpherson, we made good progress, and occasionally found some grassy bits where we could canter. When opposite the Rob Roy gorge, we got a view of the glacier: the peaks above it had a fresh dusting of snow, and lay dazzling white under the glorious New Zealand blue. As we journeyed on, the mountains to right and left were tilted at the most extraordinary
