"I remember. My mother and I made a pilgrimage to it. Poor old John. This is still a stage road, isn't it?" "Yes, but we leave it at North Elba. It turns off there for Keene." At the fork of the road Frank followed the stage road with his eye, recalling his mountain summer of ten years before. "I know, now," he reflected aloud. "This road goes to Keene, and on to Elizabeth and Westport. I went over it in the fall. I remember the mountains being all colors, with tips of snow on them." Suddenly he brought his hand down on his knee. "It's just come to me," he said. "Somewhere between here and Keene there was a little girl who had berries to sell, and I ran back up a long hill and gave her my lucky piece for them. I told her to keep it for me till I came back. That was ten years ago. I never went back. I wonder if she has it still?" The student of theology shook his head. It did not seem likely. Then he suggested that, of course, she would be a good deal older now--an idea which did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Weatherby. "Sure enough," he agreed, "and maybe not there. I suppose you don't know anybody over that way." The driver did not. During the few weeks since his arrival he had acquired only such knowledge as had to do with his direct line of travel. They left North Elba behind, and crossing another open stretch of country, headed straight for the mountains. They passed a red farmhouse, and brooks in which Frank thought there must be trout. Then by an avenue of spring leafage, shot with sunlight and sweet with the smell of spruce and deep leaf mold, they entered the great forest where, a mile or so beyond, lay the Lodge. Frank's heart began to quicken, though not wholly as the result of eagerness. He had not written Constance that he was coming so soon. Indeed, in her letter she had suggested in a manner which might have been construed as a command that _if_ he intended to _come to the Adirondacks at all_ this summer he should wait until they were settled in their camp. But Frank had discovered that New York in June was not the attractive place he had considered it in former years. Also that the thought of the Adirondacks, even the very word itself, had acquired a certain charm. To desire and to do were not likely to be very widely separated with a young man of his means and training, and he had left for Lake Placid that night. Yet now that he had brought surprise to the very threshold, as it were, he began to hesitate. Perhaps, after all, Constance might not be overjoyed or even mildly pleased at his coming. She had seemed a bit distant before her departure, and he knew how hard it was to count on her at times. "You can see the Lodge from that bend," said his companion, presently, pointing with his whip.