Midway between the two extremities, on the eastern shore of the lake, is a valley between two hills, which come down to the very edge of the lake, leaving only room enough for a road between their base and the water.  This valley, half a mile in width, has been long settled, and here for a century or more has stood the old Anchor Tavern.  A famous place it was so long as its sign swung at the side of the road:  famous for its landlord, portly, paternal, whose welcome to a guest that looked worthy of the attention was like that of a parent to a returning prodigal, and whose parting words were almost as good as a marriage benediction; famous for its landlady, ample in person, motherly, seeing to the whole household with her own eyes, mistress of all culinary secrets that Northern kitchens are most proud of; famous also for its ancient servant, as city people would call her,—­help, as she was called in the tavern and would have called herself,—­the unchanging, seemingly immortal Miranda, who cared for the guests as if she were their nursing mother, and pressed the specially favorite delicacies on their attention as a connoisseur calls the wandering eyes of an amateur to the beauties of a picture.  Who that has ever been at the old Anchor Tavern forgets Miranda’s

   “A little of this fricassee?-it is ver-y nice;”

or

   “Some of these cakes?  You will find them ver-y good.”

Nor would it be just to memory to forget that other notable and noted member of the household,—­the unsleeping, unresting, omnipresent Pushee, ready for everybody and everything, everywhere within the limits of the establishment at all hours of the day and night.  He fed, nobody could say accurately when or where.  There were rumors of a “bunk,” in which he lay down with his clothes on, but he seemed to be always wide awake, and at the service of as many guest, at once as if there had been half a dozen of him.

So much for old reminiscences.

The landlord of the Anchor Tavern had taken down his sign.  He had had the house thoroughly renovated and furnished it anew, and kept it open in summer for a few boarders.  It happened more than once that the summer boarders were so much pleased with the place that they stayed on through the autumn, and some of them through the winter.  The attractions of the village were really remarkable.  Boating in summer, and skating in winter; ice-boats, too, which the wild ducks could hardly keep up with; fishing, for which the lake was renowned; varied and beautiful walks through the valley and up the hillsides; houses sheltered from the north and northeasterly winds, and refreshed in the hot summer days by the breeze which came over the water,—­all this made the frame for a pleasing picture of rest and happiness.  But there was a great deal more than this.  There was a fine library in the little village, presented and richly endowed by a wealthy native of the place.  There was a small permanent population of a superior