After
dinner she sat, for a moment, before the log fire in the
low-ceilinged room, with its log walls, its rustic benches,
and its soft-toned green and brown cushions. She forgot to
be unhappy. She forgot to be anything but deliciously
drowsy. And presently she climbed the winding stair whose
newel post was a fire-marked tree trunk, richly colored, and
curiously twisted. And so to her lamp-lighted room, very
small, very clean, very quiet. She opened her window and
looked out at the towering mass that was Long's Peak, and at
the stars, and she heard the busy little brook that scurries
through the Inn yard on its way from the mountain to the
valley. She undressed quickly, and crept into bed, meaning
to be very, very miserable indeed. And the next thing she
knew it was morning. A blue and gold October morning. And
the mountains!--but there is no describing a mountain. One
uses words, and they are futile. Fanny viewed them again,
from her window, between pauses in dressing. And she meant,
privately, to be miserable again.
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