She spent the morning in unpacking the stores, which had arrived late overnight from the ferry, and in putting a hundred small touches to her bedroom and sitting-room, to make them more habitable.  By noon she had finished the unpacking, and dismissed the two grooms to make their way back to Boston and report that all was well with her.  It rained until three in the afternoon; and then, the weather clearing, she saddled Madcap with her own hands and rode to the edge of the forest.  Little light remained when she reached its outskirts, and she peered curiously between the dim boles for a few minutes before turning for her homeward ride.  She had brought a beautiful scheme in her head, and the forest was concerned in it; but for the moment, in this twilight, the forest daunted her.  She had—­for she differed from most maidens—­left her lover to arrange all the business of the marriage ceremony, stipulating only that it must be private.  But she had at the same time bound him by a lover’s oath that all details of the honeymoon must be left to her; that he should neither know where and how it was to be spent, nor seek to enquire.  She would meet him at the church porch in the village below—­in what garb, even, she would not promise; and after the ceremony he must be ready to ride away with her—­she would not promise whither.

Her project had been to build a camp far in the woods; and to this end she had made her many purchases in Port Nassau.  They included, besides an array of provisions and cooking-pots, a hunter’s tent such as the backwoodsmen used in their expeditions after beaver and moose.  It weighed many pounds, and a part of her problem was how to convey it to any depth of the forest unaided.

The easterly gale blew itself out.  The next morning broke with rifts of blue, and steadied itself, after two hours, to clear sunshine.  She awoke in blithe spirits, and after breakfast went off without waste of time to saddle Madcap.  By the stable door she found Mr. Strongtharm seated and polishing his gun, and paused to catechise him on the forest tracks, particularly on those leading up through Soldier’s Gap—­by which name he called the gorge at the head of the plain.

“The best track beyond, you’ll find, lies pretty close ’longside the river,” he said.  “But ’tis no road for the mare.  I doubt if a mule could manage it after the third mile.  The river, you see, comes through in a monstrous hurry—­by the look of it here you’d never guess.  No, indeed, ‘tisn’t a river at all, properly speakin’, but a whole heap o’ streams tumblin’ down this-a-way, that-a-way, out o’ the side valleys; and what you may call the main river don’t run in one body, but breaks itself up considerable over waterfalls.  Rock for the most part, an’ pretty steep, with splashy ground below the falls.  I han’t been right up the Gap these dozen years; an’ a man’s job it is at the best—­a two days’ journey.  The las’ time I slept the night, goin’ an’ comin’, in Peter Vanders’ lodge.”