Just before me the creek split on a tongue or wedge of land, which came sweeping gradually down from a vast spur in the background. Shaping itself to a sharp point represented by an enormous, deeply imbedded bowlder, the formation broadened backward rapidly and generously, widely deflecting the halved stream. A quarter of a mile away I could see a house--or cabin--surrounded by a dilapidated rail fence, with sundry pens and outbuildings in miniature clustered in the rear. In the foreground, to the left, was an acre or two of tilled soil. Paralleling the left fork of the cloven creek, looping the point and fording the right fork, was a mountain road. In front of me, spanning the left fork, was the trunk of a huge beech tree, lopped of its branches, and that this was a bridge which some far-gone storm had placed I knew at once, for a crude ladder led up to its root-wadded butt. For several minutes I stood, panting from my exertions, and conscious of a slight pain in my right side. This did not alarm me, for I was convinced it was nothing but what old people call a "stitch," caused by my recent strenuous walk. I had reached Lizard Point--a most insignificant name for such an impressive portion of country. There was but one dwelling visible; therefore there could be but one place for me to seek for Lessie. I came to the ladder, and had placed my foot upon the bottom-most cross-piece when I halted, and in secret manner, although there was no need of secrecy, drew the jar from my pocket and hid it under the tree's lowest roots. I had promised Lessie I would tell her why I carried it with me the next time I saw her, and this I did not want to do, for she would fail to understand, and I would only appear ridiculous. Queer how a man shuns being made ridiculous, but after all it is only natural, especially if one is inclined to sensitiveness. I mounted to the tree, and saw that the bark along its top surface had been completely worn away. The tree had evidently been in use as a means of passage for a long time. I walked across, sure-footed and steady, and found a slight path winding up the easy ascent toward the house. This I followed, keeping my eyes on the log dwelling ahead. As I drew nearer, I made out a small porch, or stoop, and on this some one was sitting. There was no other sign of life, if I expect a bony, yellow dog which came slowly into sight from around the corner, and a string of white ducks filing sedately down to the creek. I passed through a gap in the crazy fence and traversed the yard. I now saw that it was an old woman who sat on the porch. She was very fat, and she sat in a low rocking-chair with her knees apart. A ball of yarn lay in her lap, and she was knitting and rocking, knitting and rocking. Her great bulk completely hid her support, but I knew it was a rocking-chair from her motions.