Again at Bethlehem Junction we follow the main thoroughfare through the mountains to the great chain of hotels of world-wide fame known as the Twin Mountain House, Fabyan’s, and the Crawford House.  Up the valley of the Ammonoosuc to the Twin Mountain House, which takes its name from two prominent peaks of the Franconia range, is a delightful ride.  We are now in the midst of the mountain region, the White Mountain plateau.  Here nature, en dishabille, with locks unkempt and loosened zone, reclines at Ease in her most secret chamber, beyond the reach of intrusion, and neither thinking of, nor caring for, the critical philosophy of the outside world; an emerald-crowned Cleopatra, revelling in the midst of her great vassals.

[Illustration:  Squam lake and Mount Chocorua.]

The Twin Mountain House, like Fabyan’s and the Crawford House, is a post-office.  It is a hostelry, also, that is not surpassed in its management, cuisine or in magnificence by any in the chain.

“It is good to be here,” said Molly, lying back in her chair on the long piazza, “while the wind blows fair, as in Indian myth blew the breeze from the Land of Souls.”

“Do you remember the other time we were here, Molly?” asked Fritz, “and the beautiful moonlight evenings we enjoyed?”

“Oh, yes.  How many nights we sat here or promenaded among the trees.  It was in September and the moon was full.  As she arose over the eastern hills and threw her light upon the valley beneath, I never saw her more majestic.  The soft, mellow radiance of the queen of night filled every nook and crevice with light.  The trees waved their branches, and beckoned the woodland nymphs forth to a dance on the green.  Surely, it seems as if Shakespeare must have had just such evenings in his mind when he wrote ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”

“Ah, that was a ‘Lover’s Pilgrimage,’” observed Fritz, grimly, “now it is a pilgrimage for—­”

[Illustration:  Mount Madison, in Gorham.]

“What?”

“You interrupted me; we will call it an aesthetic pilgrimage.”

What days those were we passed in the upland region.  Fabyan’s is situated in the very heart of the White Hills and is the objective point for all tourists.  From the verandas of this spacious hotel, one obtains an uninterrupted view of the whole Presidential Range, and can watch the course of the train of cars as it creeps slowly up the precipitous sides of Mount Washington.

Taking the train at Fabyan’s, one glides rapidly up the steepest practical grade to the Base station, where he leaves the ordinary passenger coach and takes his seat in a car designed to be pushed up the Mount Washington Railroad.  After the warning whistle the train starts slowly on its journey—­the grandest sensation of the whole trip to the ordinary traveller.  The most magnificent scenery is soon spread before the tourist.  No other three miles