primitive sinks back into obscurity and all those unplumbed depths within stir at the call. Spirit, imagination, name it what you will, it steals into the heart on the lonely silent summits and will not be denied. Even as the Great Master of old, who in time of tribulation "went up alone on to a high mountain," we hear the still small voice. Haply sometimes we may heed, and carry back to the dust and turmoil of the valley a glimpse of the vision that never was on land or sea.
After some discussion we made up our minds to return that day to the Hermitage, the alternative being another night at the bivouac, in order to make an attempt on Mount Dampier the following day. As we were short of food and the weather looked threatening, we decided to postpone the latter expedition for a more suitable occasion. Shortly we set about packing our rucksacs and striking camp. By 11 a.m. all was finished and we started off for our long tramp to the Hermitage. We reached the Hooker hut at a quarter past one. Here we rested for two hours and made such changes in our toilets as circumstances permitted and a return to civilization called for. In my case a billy of hot water and a brush worked wonders, and I was ready to face the critical glances of the tourist with equanimity. We met no one on the track, but on reaching the Hermitage I found my old friend Mr. McDonald in the backyard. He read our beaming faces aright, and gripping me enthusiastically by the hands he cried, "You did it, lassie—you did it sure enough!" Up went his hat in the air and a cheer followed it, which brought some more inhabitants to the spot to see what was in the wind. Laughing, I thanked him and made good my escape. The news soon went round and my friends came to my room, from which haven I declined to budge till dinner-time.
Superstitions die hard, and being perfectly well aware that the average person's idea of a woman capable of real
