"And my judgment is to be final, of course. Very well; Minerva holds her court at ten to-morrow, at the top of yon small mountain, which on the one side slopes to the lake, and on the other overlooks the pleasant Valley of Decision, which borders the West Branch." "And do I meet Minerva on the mountain top, or do I call for her at the usual address--that is to say, here?" "You may call for Minerva. After her recent period of inactivity she may need assistance over the hard places." Frank did, in fact, arrive at the camp next morning almost in time for breakfast. Perhaps the habit of early rising had grown upon him of late. Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that Constance had really returned. Even a wish to hear her opinion of the manuscript may have exerted a certain influence. They set out presently, followed by numerous injunctions from Mrs. Deane concerning fogs and trails and an early return. Frank had never ascended this steep little mountain back of the camp, save once by a trail that started from near the Lodge. He let Constance take the lead. It was a rare morning--one of the first September days, when the early blaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just a spice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonic that lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from the material earth. "If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascended the first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings." Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, where the bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, and within a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone upon which was cut the single word, "CONSTANCE." Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderingly without speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in his face. "That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place and name. She always loved this spot, so when she died they laid her here. They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on the stone." Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave. "I never knew that you had lost a sister," he said. "I mean that your parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were born." "No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now." Frank said musingly: "I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to be. Is this what you meant?" She nodded. "Yes; that is what I meant." They pushed on up the hill, without many words.