Indiana, watching the rain, forebore to answer. There were times when Mrs. Bunker’s constant desire for pleasure rather palled on her. Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside resort proved to be merely a repetition of other summers. Indiana enjoyed herself, after the manner of the young and thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting, and laughing. But after the glare of the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on the shore, after falling asleep every night to the echoes of the very latest dance music, mingled with the eternal dash of the waves, the woods beckoned her invitingly. It was the middle of August before the Stillwater’s were installed in the mountains. They arrived at the primitive station early in the morning, and were met by one of the two guides yearly engaged for the season. There was a large mountain wagon, without a cover, awaiting them, and a pair of fresh-looking ponies. Indiana jumped up nimbly, and took the reins, while Haller, the guide, packed in the rest of the family and Kitty, all looking rather sleepy, from their all-night travel. The other servants had preceded them by some days. "All right!" shouted Indiana, starting at a brisk trot. It was only twenty minutes’ drive from the station to a landing, where they were met by a trim little naptha launch with "The Indiana" painted newly, in bright letters, upon the prow. She puffed slowly up one of the largest lakes in the Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the mountains. The latter are higher in this particular region, the scenery wilder than elsewhere. Nature had designed a beautiful color scheme from the lake; the rich, vivid green of the banks, fretted with enormous rocks and crags, the darker background of the immediate mountains, in their funereal dress of pine and balsam, and beyond the pale tracery of the distant ranges. It was a dull morning, and the grey atmosphere gave a touch of desolation to the wild environment of the lake. "It’s lonesome as the grave," said Mrs. Bunker. "Throw me that cape, please, Mr. Haller. I’m chilly." "Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain contortion of his serious face, which was intended for a smile. "Waal, ’tis cool, mornin’s." "How are the evenings? Cold, I suppose?" Haller cogitated for the space of five minutes. No one answers a question thoughtlessly in these regions; and after sojourning there some time, one learns not to interrogate at random. "Waal," he said at length, "’tis cool evenin’s." "None of the leaves have changed yet," said Indiana, after closely inspecting the banks on either side. "No; they ain’t changin’. Waal, thar’s bin no frost, ter speak of—thar’s bin no frost, ter speak of." "Is it going to storm?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a heavy plaid shawl wrapped about her. Haller looked at the sky. "Waal, not yet awhile."