"It doesn't sound like that," he said. "It's something like Forney, or Farham. He's a student, too--a civil engineer--but he was raised in these hills and has been guiding since he was a boy. He's done it every summer to pay his way through college. Next year he graduates, and they say he's the best in the school. Of course, guides get big pay--as much as three dollars a day, some of them--besides their board." The last detail did not interest Mr. Weatherby. He was suddenly recalling a wet, blowy March evening on Broadway--himself under a big umbrella with Constance Deane. She was speaking, and he could recall her words quite plainly: "I know one young man who is going to be an engineer. He was a poor boy--so poor--and has worked his way. I shall see him this summer. You don't know how proud I shall be of him." To Frank the glory of the hills faded a little, and the progress of the team seemed unduly slow. "Suppose we move up a bit," he suggested to the gentle youth with the reins, and the horses were presently splashing through a shallow pool left by recent showers. "He's a very strong fellow," the informant continued, "and handsome. He's going to marry the daughter of the man who owns the Lodge when he gets started as an engineer. She's a pretty girl, and smart. Her mother's dead, and she's her father's housekeeper. She teaches school sometimes, too. They'll make a fine match." The glory of the hills renewed itself, and though the horses had dropped once more into a lazy jog, Frank did not suggest urging them. "I believe there is a young lady guest at the Lodge," he ventured a little later--a wholly unnecessary remark--he having received a letter from Constance on her arrival there, with her parents, less than a week before. The youth nodded. "Two," he said. "One I brought over yesterday--from Utica, I think she was--and another last week, from New York, with her folks. Their names are Deane, and they own a camp up here. They're staying at the Lodge till it's ready." "I see; and did the last young lady--the family, I mean--seem to know any one at the Lodge?" But the youth could not say. He had taken them over with their bags and trunks and had not noticed farther, only that once or twice since, when he had arrived with the mail, the young lady had come in from the woods with a book and a basket of mushrooms, most of which he thought to be toadstools, and poisonous. Once--maybe both times--Robin had been with her--probably engaged as a guide. Robin would be apt to know about mushrooms. Frank assented a little dubiously. "I shouldn't wonder if we'd better be moving along," he suggested. "We might be late with that mail." There followed another period of silence and increased speed. As they neared the North Elba post-office--a farmhouse with a flower-garden in front of it--the youth pointed backward to a hill with a flag-staff on it. "That is John Brown's grave," he said. His companion looked and nodded.