As he leaned on the stout staff that had assisted him in climbing, his figure seemed bent as though by age, but when he lifted his, face, tanned brown by long exposure, the downy moustache on his upper lip proclaimed his youth.

Altogether the change in his appearance was so great that his most intimate friend would hardly have recognised in him the youth who had been called the best dressed man in the T.I.class of '99 a few months earlier.

But the voice with which he finally broke the silence of his long reverie was unmistakably that of Cabot Grant.
[Illustration: A solitary figure stood on the crest of a bald headland.] "Heigh ho!" he sighed, as he cast a sweeping glance over the widespread waste of waters on which nothing floated save a few belated icebergs, and then inland over weary miles of desolate upland barrens, treeless, moss-covered, and painfully rugged.

"It is tough luck to be shut up here like birds in a cage, with no chance of the door being opened before next summer.

It is tougher on Baldwin, though, than on me, and if he can stand it I guess I can.