“Why,” asked Irene, trembling at the thought of that danger so long ago —­“why didn’t you go back down the ravine?”

“Because,” and King took up the willing little hand and pressed it to his lips, and looked steadily in her eyes—­“because that is not my way.  It was nothing.  I made what I thought was a very safe calculation, starting from the ravine as a base, to strike the Crawford bridle-path at least a quarter of a mile west of the house.  I hit it—­but it shows how little one can tell of his course in a fog—­I struck it within a rod of the house!  It was lucky for me that I did not go two rods further east.”

Ah me! how real and still present the peril seemed to the girl!  “You will solemnly promise me, solemnly, will you not, Stanhope, never to go there again—­never—­without me?”

The promise was given.  “I have a note,” said King, after the promise was recorded and sealed, “to show you.  It came this morning.  It is from Mrs. Bartlett Glow.”

“Perhaps I’d rather not see it,” said Irene, a little stiffly.

“Oh, there is a message to you.  I’ll read it.”

It was dated at Newport.

“My dear Stanhope,—­The weather has changed.  I hope it is more
congenial where you are.  It is horrid here.  I am in a bad humor,
chiefly about the cook.  Don’t think I’m going to inflict a letter
on you.  You don’t deserve it besides.  But I should like to know
Miss Benson’s address.  We shall be at home in October, late, and I
want her to come and make me a little visit.  If you happen to see
her, give her my love, and believe me your affectionate cousin,

          
                              Penelope.”

The next day they explored the wonders of the Notch, and the next were back in the serene atmosphere of the Profile House.  How lovely it all was; how idyllic; what a bloom there was on the hills; how amiable everybody seemed; how easy it was to be kind and considerate!  King wished he could meet a beggar at every turn.  I know he made a great impression on some elderly maiden ladies at the hotel, who thought him the most gentlemanly and good young man they had ever seen.  Ah! if one could always be in love and always young!

They went one day by invitation, Irene and Marion and King and the artist—­as if it made any difference where they went—­to Lonesome Lake, a private pond and fishing-lodge on the mountain-top, under the ledge of Cannon.  There, set in a rim of forest and crags, lies a charming little lake—­which the mountain holds like a mirror for the sky and the clouds and the sailing hawks—­full of speckled trout, which have had to be educated by skillful sportsmen to take the fly.  From this lake one sees the whole upper range of Lafayette, gray and purple against the sky.  On the bank is a log cabin touched with color, with great chimneys, and as luxuriously comfortable as it is picturesque.