Southerly from Bethlehem Junction a narrow-gauge railway extends into the heart of the Franconia Notch, having its terminus at the celebrated Profile House, which is a considerable village in itself.  At the end of the route the road skirts the shores of Echo Lake, a gem of water surrounded by lofty mountains, a fit home for nymphs and naiads.

“I should like to read ‘Manfred’ here,” said Molly one morning (Byron was one of her favorites) “It is just the place, mountains, forests and all, and who knows—­the wizzard.”

“There is the Old Man of the Mountain; perhaps he would volunteer,” suggested Fritz.

“I thought it was a witch,” observed the indefinite person.

[Illustration:  Silver Cascade in the Notch.]

“Well, it matters not which it was,” said Molly, seeing that we were attempting to badger her.  “Here is the hour and the scene.”

“But the man, O, where is he?” cried Fritz.

“The truth is, we cannot appreciate Byron till we come here,” pursued Molly.  “If we could only have a tempest now.  Ah, I can imagine those mountain Alps.  How beautiful and grand it is.  Within this wide domain romance, science, and nature, murmur an eternal anthem, which wooes for every soul that finds itself herein a new aspiration, and a realization that, after all our study and care, we have appreciated creation so lightly!”

That afternoon Molly had her wished-for tempest.  The heat had been sultry, but by five o’clock a heavy wind began to blow and huge billows of clouds began to appear above the tops of the mountains.  The sky grew blacker every moment.  By and by a mighty river of clouds began to pour itself down over the peaks into the valley below; one by one each haughty crest disappeared beneath the flood.  In a few moments every ravine was filled with rolling masses of clouds and the rain was falling in sheets.  We could trace its rapid flight over the space between the hotel and the distant mountains.  A gentleman who has been at the Profile House for several summers said that he had never seen so grand a storm-cloud as the one just described.  When the storm was past and the clouds began to melt away, it was natural enough that we should call to mind the following passage from “Lucile:” 

[Illustration:  Giant’s stairs, Bartlett.]

              Meanwhile,
  The sun in his setting, sent up the last smile
  Of his power, to baffle the storm.  And, behold
  O’er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold,
  Rose and rested; while far up the dim airy crags,
  Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags,
  The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat
  Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet
  The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar,
  Had already sent forward one bright signal star.