Both Miss Hargrove and Burt were bewildered. There was lurking mischief in Amy's eyes when she first spoke, and yet she used her influence to keep Burt in her friend's society. Her spirits seemed too exuberant to be natural, and Miss Hargrove, who was an adept at hiding her feelings under a mask of gayety, surmised that Amy's feminine instincts had taught her to employ the same tactics. Conscious of their secret, Miss Hargrove and Burt both thought, "Perhaps it is her purpose to throw us together as far as possible, and learn the truth." Amy had a kinder purpose than they imagined. She wanted no more of Burt's forced allegiance, and was much too good-natured to permit mere pique to cause unhappiness to others. "Let Gertrude win him if she cares for him," was her thought, "and if _she_ can't hold him his case is _hopeless_." She could not resist the temptation, however, to tease Burt a little. But he gave her slight chance for the next few hours. Her mirthful question and the glance accompanying it had put him on his guard again, and he at once became the gay cavalier-general he had resolved on being throughout the day. They made a long pause to enjoy the view looking out upon Constitution Island, West Point, the southern mountains, and the winding river, dotted here and there with sails, and with steamers, seemingly held motionless by their widely separated train of canal boats. "What mountain is this that we are now to descend?" Miss Hargrove asked. "Cro' Nest," Burt replied. "It's the first high mountain that abuts on the river above West Point, you will remember." "Oh, yes, I remember. I have a song relating to it, and will give you a verse;" and she sang: "'Where Hudson's waves o'er silvery sands Wind through the hills afar, And Cro' Nest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star.'" After a round of applause had subsided, Burt, whose eyes had been more demonstrative than his hands, said, "That's by Morris. We can see from Fort Putnam his old home under Mount Taurus." "I know. He is the poet who entreated the woodman to 'spare that tree.'" "Which the woodman will never do," Webb remarked, "unless compelled by law; nor even then, I fear." "Oh, Webb!" cried Amy, "with what a thump you drop into prose!" "I also advise an immediate descent of the mountain if we are to have any time at Fort Putnam," he added. "I'll walk on." They were soon winding down the S's by which the road overcame the steep declivity. On reaching a plateau, before the final descent, they came across a wretched hovel, gray and storm-beaten, with scarcely strength to stand. Rags took the place of broken glass in the windows. A pig was rooting near the doorstep, on which stood a slatternly woman, regarding the party with dull curiosity. "Talk about the elevating influence of mountain scenery," said Miss Hargrove; "there's a commentary on the theory."