'What was a sham? I don't know what you mean,' I rejoined.

'Why that,' she returned, pointing with her hand. Then addressing her father, 'Isn't that the Eiger,' she asked--'the same we rode under yesterday?'

'To be sure it is,' he answered.

She turned again to me.

'You see it is all a sham! Last night it pretended to be on the very edge of the road and hanging over our heads at an awful height. Now it has gone a long way back, is not so very high, and certainly does not hang over. I ought not to have been satisfied with that precipice. It took me in.'

I did not reply at once. Clara's words appeared to me quite irreverent, and I recoiled from the very thought that there could be any sham in nature; but what to answer her I did not know. I almost began to dislike her; for it is often incapacity for defending the faith they love which turns men into persecutors.

Seeing me foiled, Charley advanced with the doubtful aid of a sophism to help me.

'Which is the sham, Miss Clara?' he asked.

'That Eiger mountain there.'

'Ah! so I thought.'

'Then you are of my opinion, Mr Osborne?'

'You mean the mountain is shamming, don't you--looking far off when really it is near?'

'Not at all. When it looked last night as if it hung right over our heads, it was shamming. See it now--far away there!'

'But which, then, is the sham, and which is the true? It _looked_ near yesterday, and now it _looks_ far away. Which is which?'

'It must have been a sham yesterday; for although it looked near, it was very dull and dim, and you could only see the sharp outline of it.'

'Just so I argue on the other side. The mountain must be shamming now, for although it looks so far off, it yet shows a most contradictory clearness--not only of outline but of surface.'

'Aha!' thought I, 'Miss Clara has found her match. They both know he is talking nonsense, yet she can't answer him. What she was saying was nonsense too, but I can't answer it either--not yet.'

I felt proud of both of them, but of Charley especially, for I had had no idea he could be so quick.

'What ever put such an answer into your head, Charley?' I exclaimed.

'Oh! it's not quite original,' he returned. 'I believe it was suggested by two or three lines I read in a review just before we left home. They took hold of me rather.'

He repeated half of the now well-known little poem of Sh.e.l.ley, headed _Pa.s.sage of the Apennines_. He had forgotten the name of the writer, and it was many years before I fell in with the lines myself.

'The Apennine in the light of day Is a mighty mountain dim and gray, Which between the earth and sky doth lay; But when night comes, a chaos dread On the dim starlight then is spread, And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm.'

In the middle of it I saw Clara begin to t.i.tter, but she did not interrupt him. When he had finished, she said with a grave face, too grave for seriousness:

'Will you repeat the third line--I think it was, Mr Osborne?'

He did so.

'What kind of eggs did the Apennine lay, Mr Osborne?' she asked, still perfectly serious.

Charley was abashed to find she could take advantage of probably a provincialism to turn into ridicule such fine verses. Before he could recover himself, she had planted another blow' or two.

'And where is its nest?' Between the earth and the sky is vague. But then to be sure it must want a good deal of room. And after all, a mountain is a strange fowl, and who knows where it might lay? Between earth and sky is quite definite enough? Besides, the bird-nesting boys might be dangerous if they knew where it was. It would be such a find for them!'

My champion was defeated. Without attempting a word in reply, he hung back and dropped behind. Mr Coningham must have heard the whole, but he offered no remark. I saw that Charley's sensitive nature was hurt, and my heart was sore for him.

'That's too bad of you, Clara,' I said.

'What's too bad of me, Wilfrid?' she returned.

I hesitated a moment, then answered--

'To make game of such verses. Any one with half a soul must see they were fine.'

'Very wrong of you, indeed, my dear,' said Mr Coningham from behind, in a voice that sounded as if he were smothering a laugh; but when I looked round, his face was grave.

'Then I suppose that half soul I haven't got,' returned Clara.

'Oh! I didn't mean that,' I said, lamely enough. 'But there's no logic in that kind of thing, you know.'

'You see, papa,' said Clara, 'what you are accountable for. Why didn't you make them teach me logic?'

Her father smiled a pleased smile. His daughter's naivete would in his eyes make up for any lack of logic.

'Mr Osborne,' continued Clara, turning back, 'I beg your pardon. I am a woman, and you men don't allow us to learn logic. But at the same time you must confess you were making a bad use of yours. You know it was all nonsense you were trying to pa.s.s off on me for wisdom.'

He was by her side the instant she spoke to him. A smile grew upon his face; I could see it growing, just as you see the sun growing behind a cloud. In a moment it broke out in radiance.

'I confess,' he said. 'I thought you were too hard on Wilfrid; and he hadn't anything at hand to say for himself.'

'And you were too hard upon me, weren't you? Two to one is not fair play--is it now?'

'No; certainly not.'

'And that justified a little false play on my part?'

'No, it did _not_,' said Charley, almost fiercely. 'Nothing justifies false play.'

'Not even yours, Mr Osborne?' replied Clara, with a stately coldness quite marvellous in one so young; and leaving him, she came again to my side. I peeped at Mr Coningham, curious to see how he regarded all this wrangling with his daughter. He appeared at once amused and satisfied.

Clara's face was in a glow, clearly of anger at the discourteous manner in which Charley had spoken.

'You mustn't be angry with Charley, Clara,' I said.

'He is very rude,' she replied indignantly.

'What he said was rude, I allow, but Charley himself is anything but rude. I haven't looked at him, but I am certain he is miserable about it already.'