describe the jutting headlands--wild, broken lines of white cliffs
stretching to the southward, deep chasms, steep, forest-clad mountains,
green or blue as distance, sunshine, or shadow may decree, and the
tranquil green lake, smiling as a deep, strong and cheerful spirit amid
the ruins of a shattered, wasted life? As our travellers gazed, they
thanked God that His world was so beautiful, and wondered if even Aunt
Sarah would not be willing to run the risk of being thought strong
minded to see so fair a corner of it.

The moon that night rose late; and the air was chill as the sisters
stood on a rock waiting until its rays should silver the placid waves.
Overhead ran a strange, broad, coruscating band of magnetic light,
meteors flashed down the sky, a solitary loon sent a wild, despairing
cry athwart the lake, and for the first time did our travellers feel
they were alone, eighteen hundred feet above the Hudson, far away from
other human habitation. A truly feminine shudder ran through their
hearts, as they turned toward the house and betook them to the cells
appropriated to their use. The following day they were driven down the
mountain by the owner (not the keeper) of the little inn beside the
lake. He was one of nature's own gentlemen; tall,--six feet,
perhaps,--gray haired, blue eyed, with every feature well cut, and with
the most honest expression ever beaming through a human countenance. The
hearts of the sisters warmed toward him, and never were they more
willing to acknowledge the solidarity of the race, the great fact of the
brotherhood of all humanity.

Cornwall once again safely reached, and the outlines of the journey duly
sketched, Aunt Sarah's first question was: 'Well, and what _is_ the name
of this famous lake?'