The fire was
crackling gloriously. It was a many-windowed room, and each
window framed an enchanting glimpse of mountain, flaming
with aspens up to timber-line, and snow-capped at the top.
Fanny decided to wait until the fire had died down to a
coal-bed. Then she banked it carefully, put on a heavy
sweater and a cap, and made for the outdoors. She struck
out briskly, tenderfoot that she was. In five minutes she
was panting. Her heart was hammering suffocatingly. Her
lungs ached. She stopped, trembling. Then she remembered.
The altitude, of course. Heyl had boasted that his cabin
stood at an altitude of over nine thousand feet. Well, she
would have to get used to it. But she was soon striding
forward as briskly as before. She was a natural mountain
dweller. The air, the altitude, speeded up her heart, her
lungs, sent the blood dancing through her veins.
Figuratively, she was on tip-toe.
They had warned her, at the Inn, to take it slowly for the
first few days. They had asked no questions. Fanny learned
to heed their advice.
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