RODERICK HUDSON
exhilarated; she rejoiced in their adventure; in the way of mountains, until within the last few weeks, she had seen, for a near view, nothing greater than Mounts Holyoke and Tom and the mild Alban hills, so that she recognised in the Alps the just ground of their glory. Rowland had noted her own vision of natural objects, but he was struck afresh with her quick eye for them and with her knowledge of plants and rocks and "formations." At that season many of the wild flowers had gone, but others lingered, and Mary never failed to "spot" them in their outlying corners. She gave herself up to them, interested when they were old friends and charmed when they were new. Her foot was light in quest of them and she had soon covered the front seat of the carriage with a tangle of strange vegetation. Rowland had always supposed himself to dislike the race of weed-gathering, vase-dressing women, disposers, over the domestic scene, of bristling, tickling greenery; but he was none the less alert in her service and gathered for her several fine specimens which had at first seemed inaccessible. One of these indeed had appeared an easier prize than it was likely to prove, and he had paused a moment at the base of the little peak on which it grew, measuring the risk of further pursuit. Suddenly, as he stood there, he remembered Roderick's defiance of danger and of Christina Light during that sharp moment at the Coliseum, and he was seized with a strong desire to test the quality of his own companion. She had just scrambled up a grassy slope near him and had seen that the flower was out of reach. As he prepared to
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