to be a guide when I grew up. I don't think I'd like it so well now."
"They have the best guides at the Lodge," commented the driver. "The head guide there is the best in the mountains. This is his first year at the Lodge. He was with the Adirondack Club before."
"I suppose it couldn't be my old hero, Lawless?"
"No; this is a young man. I don't just remember his last name, but most people call him Robin."
"Um, not Robin Hood, I hope."
The theological student shook his head. The story of the Sherwood bandit had not been a part of his education.
"It doesn't sound like that," he said. "It's something like Forney, or Farham. He's a student, too – a civil engineer – but he was raised in these hills and has been guiding since he was a boy. He's done it every summer to pay his way through college. Next year he graduates, and they say he's the best in the school. Of course, guides get big pay – as much as three dollars a day, some of them – besides their board."
The last detail did not interest Mr. Weatherby. He was suddenly recalling a wet, blowy March evening on Broadway – himself under a big umbrella with Constance Deane. She was speaking, and he could recall her words quite plainly: "I know one young man who is going to be an engineer. He was a poor boy – so poor – and has worked his way. I shall see him this summer. You don't know how proud I shall be of him."
To Frank the glory of the hills faded a little, and the progress of the team seemed unduly slow.
"Suppose we move up a bit," he suggested to the gentle youth with the reins, and the horses were presently splashing through a shallow pool left by recent showers.
"He's a very strong fellow," the informant continued, "and handsome. He's going to marry the daughter of the man who owns the Lodge when he gets started as an engineer. She's a pretty girl, and smart. Her mother's dead, and she's her father's housekeeper. She teaches school sometimes, too. They'll make a fine match."
The glory of the hills renewed itself, and though the horses had dropped once more into a lazy jog, Frank did not suggest urging them.
"I believe there is a young lady guest at the Lodge," he ventured a little later – a wholly unnecessary remark – he having received a letter from Constance on her arrival there, with her parents, less than a week before.
The youth nodded.
"Two," he said. "One I brought over yesterday – from Utica, I think she was – and another last week, from New York, with her folks. Their names are Deane, and they own a camp up here. They're staying at the Lodge till it's ready."
"I see; and did the last young lady – the family, I mean – seem to know any one at the Lodge?"
But the youth could not say. He had taken them over with their bags and trunks and had not noticed farther, only that once or twice since, when he had arrived with the mail, the young lady had come in from the woods with a book and a basket of mushrooms, most of which he thought to be toadstools, and poisonous. Once – maybe both times – Robin had been with her – probably engaged as a guide. Robin would be apt to know about mushrooms.
Frank assented a little dubiously.
"I shouldn't wonder if we'd better be moving along," he suggested. "We might be late with that mail."
There followed another period of silence and increased speed. As they neared the North Elba post-office – a farmhouse with a flower-garden in front of it – the youth pointed backward to a hill with a flag-staff on it.
"That is John Brown's grave," he said.
His companion looked and nodded.
"I remember. My mother and I made a pilgrimage to it. Poor old John. This is still a stage road, isn't it?"
"Yes, but we leave it at North Elba. It turns off there for Keene."
At the fork of the road Frank followed the stage road with his eye, recalling his mountain summer of ten years before.
"I know, now," he reflected aloud. "This road goes to Keene, and on to Elizabeth and Westport. I went over it in the fall. I remember the mountains being all colors, with tips of snow on them." Suddenly he brought his hand down on his knee. "It's just come to me," he said. "Somewhere between here and Keene there was a little girl who had berries to sell, and I ran back up a long hill and gave her my lucky piece for them. I told her to keep it for me till I came back. That was ten years ago. I never went back. I wonder if she has it still?"
The student of theology shook his head. It did not seem likely. Then he suggested that, of course, she would be a good deal older now – an idea which did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Weatherby.
"Sure enough," he agreed, "and maybe not there. I suppose you don't know anybody over that way."
The driver did not. During the few weeks since his arrival he had acquired only such knowledge as had to do with his direct line of travel.
They left North Elba behind, and crossing another open stretch of country, headed straight for the mountains. They passed a red farmhouse, and brooks in which Frank thought there must be trout. Then by an avenue of spring leafage, shot with sunlight and sweet with the smell of spruce and deep leaf mold, they entered the great forest where, a mile or so beyond, lay the Lodge.
Frank's heart began to quicken, though not wholly as the result of eagerness. He had not written Constance that he was coming so soon. Indeed, in her letter she had suggested in a manner which might have been construed as a command that if he intended to come to the Adirondacks at all this summer he should wait until they were settled in their camp. But Frank had discovered that New York in June was not the attractive place he had considered it in former years. Also that the thought of the Adirondacks, even the very word itself, had acquired a certain charm. To desire and to do were not likely to be very widely separated with a young man of his means and training, and he had left for Lake Placid that night.
Yet now that he had brought surprise to the very threshold, as it were, he began to hesitate. Perhaps, after all, Constance might not be overjoyed or even mildly pleased at his coming. She had seemed a bit distant before her departure, and he knew how hard it was to count on her at times.
"You can see the Lodge from that bend," said his companion, presently, pointing with his whip.
Then almost immediately they had reached the turn, and the Lodge – a great, double-story cabin of spruce logs, with wide verandas – showed through the trees. But between the hack and the Lodge were two figures – a tall young man in outing dress, carrying a basket, and a tall young woman in a walking skirt, carrying a book. They were quite close together, moving toward the Lodge. They seemed to be talking earnestly, and did not at first notice the sound of wheels.
"That's them now," whispered the young man, forgetting for the moment his scholastic training. "That's Robin and Miss Deane, with the book and the basket of toadstools."
The couple ahead stopped just then and turned. Frank prepared himself for the worst.
But Mr. Weatherby would seem to have been unduly alarmed. As he stepped from the vehicle Constance came forward with extended hand.
"You are good to surprise us," she was saying, and then, a moment later, "Mr. Weatherby, this is Mr. Robin Farnham – a friend of my childhood. I think I have mentioned him to you."
Whatever momentary hostility
