“Mamma was thinking of going back week after next,” said Miss Mary with a lovely frown.

“But when you think of it,” said Gaines, “there are lots of jolly places in town in the summer.  The roof gardens, you know, and the—­er—­the roof gardens.”

Deepest blue was the lake that day—­the day when they had the mock tournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade in the woods and caught curtain rings on the end of a lance.  Such fun!

Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowed forest.  The valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze.  A white mist from hidden falls blurred the green of a hand’s breadth of tree tops half-way down the gorge.  Youth made merry hand-in-hand with young summer.  Nothing on Broadway like that.

The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their mad drollery.  The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads and sprites.  Gaines caught most of the rings.  His was the privilege to crown the queen of the tournament.  He was the conquering knight—­as far as the rings went.  On his arm he wore a white scarf.  Compton wore light blue.  She had declared her preference for blue, but she wore white that day.

Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her.  He heard her merry laugh, as if from the clouds.  She had slipped away and climbed Chimney Rock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairy among the laurels, fifty feet above their heads.

Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge.  The bluff was easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small hold to hand or foot.  Each man quickly selected his route and began to climb, A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or tree branch—­all of these were aids that counted in the race.  It was all foolery—­there was no stake; but there was youth in it, cross reader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about.

Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himself to Miss Mary’s feet.  On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; and while the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded below he placed it on the queen’s brow.

“You are a gallant knight,” said Miss Mary.

“If I could be your true knight always,” began Gaines, but Miss Mary laughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one minute behind time.

What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel!  The opal of the valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed the lake as a mirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one.  The first pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faint glow of—­

* * * * * * *

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines,” said Adkins.

The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in the world opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on his desk.