“Let me assist you down, then, to where you will not be affected by the height.” And Nathalie, glad to think that she did not have to turn back and go down that plank alone, allowed the young man to pilot her down, firmly grasping her by the arm, until she stood where she asserted she felt no fear. She would wait there on the rocks, until the rest of her party came down, she said, after thanking her rescuer. The young man bowed silently, lifted his hat, and turned to ascend the foot-bridge again, while Nathalie sought a rock where she and Jean could sit down. But in a moment he was back at her side, crying, “I beg your pardon,” Nathalie noticed that he had a pleasant voice that somehow had a familiar ring to it, “but perhaps the little boy would like to go up to the top, as every one likes to see the cascade as it plunges over the rocks. I will take good care of him if he would like to go,” glancing at the little empty sleeve with a compassionate expression in his eyes. Nathalie was on the verge of saying, “Oh, no; I think Jean would rather stay with me,” when she caught a sudden expression in the boy’s eyes that caused her to say, “Jean, would you like to go to the top with this gentleman? Mr. Banker and the boys are up there, you know.” There was no doubt as to the child wanting to see and to do as the other children, or his evident trust in the young soldier, and a minute later the young man, with Jean’s hand held firmly in his, was guiding the child’s steps up the foot-bridge. Some time later, as the car glided along the road on its homeward journey, a short distance from the Flume House, Mr. Banker showed the party a singular rock-formation, caused by the undulations of the topmost ridge of Liberty Mountain. The outlines were those of a huge recumbent figure, wrapped in a cloak or shroud, and bore such a close resemblance, especially the contour of the forehead and nose, to those of General Washington, as after his death he lay in state, on view to the public, that it had been called “Washington in State.” Many people, he asserted, claimed that the great American’s body should lie at rest on this mountain ridge, named for what the great man had striven so hard to maintain, liberty, and thus be his everlasting mausoleum. A six-mile ride and they descended from the car, to walk to the shores of Profile Lake, a few feet from the road. But it was not to look at the sunlit sheen of silver water, embedded like a gem in a green and purple forest setting, but to gaze with awesome wonder at a huge stone face. It was the Old Man of the Mountain that gazed forth with a stony stare from a steep and craggy setting, twelve hundred feet high above the lake, on the battlemented spires of Profile, or Cannon Mountain.