and pleasanter our lives were could not help envying us.

There was a high hill half a dozen miles from Deephaven which was known
in its region as "the mountain." It was the highest land anywhere near
us, and having been told that there was a fine view from the top, one
day we went there, with Tommy Dockum for escort. We overtook Mr.
Lorimer, the minister, on his way to make parochial calls upon some
members of his parish who lived far from church, and to our delight he
proposed to go with us instead. It was a great satisfaction to have him
for a guide, for he knew both the country and the people more intimately
than any one else. It was a long climb to the top of the hill, but not a
hard one. The sky was clear, and there was a fresh wind, though we had
left none at all at the sea-level. After lunch, Kate and I spread our
shawls over a fine cushion of mountain-cranberry, and had a long talk
with Mr. Lorimer about ancient and modern Deephaven. He always seemed as
much pleased with our enthusiasm for the town as if it had been a
personal favor and compliment to himself. I remember how far we could
see, that day, and how we looked toward the far-away blue mountains, and
then out over the ocean. Deephaven looked insignificant from that height
and distance, and indeed the country seemed to be mostly covered with
the pointed tops of pines and spruces, and there were long tracts of
maple and beech woods with their coloring of lighter, fresher green.

"Suppose we go down, now," said Mr. Lorimer, long before Kate and I had
meant to propose such a thing; and our feeling was that of dismay. "I
should like to take you to make a call with me. Did you ever hear of old
Mrs. Bonny?"

"No," said we, and cheerfully gathered our wraps and baskets; and when
Tommy finally came panting up the hill after we had begun to think that