he had hitherto tried to avoid. He asked his stenographer to name a
resort where one would be likely to meet--ah--a good many people and
find--ah--air and--ah--that sort of thing. The stenographer suggested
Atlantic City. She had no idea why he asked the question.

Galusha went to Atlantic City. Atlantic City in August! Two days of
crowds and noise were sufficient. A crumpled, perspiring wreck, he
boarded the train bound for the mountains. The White Mountains were his
destination. He had never visited them, but he knew them by reputation.

The White Mountains were not so bad. The crowds at the hotels were not
pleasant, but one could get away into the woods and walk, and there was
an occasional old cemetery to be visited. But as the fall season drew on
the crowds grew greater. People persisted in talking to Galusha when
he did not care to be talked to. They asked questions. And one had to
dress--or most DID dress--for dinner. He tired of the mountains; there
were too many people there, they made him feel "queerer" than ever.

On his way from Atlantic City to the mountains he happened upon the
discarded magazine with the advertisement of the Restabit Inn in it.
Just why he had torn out that "ad" and kept it he was himself, perhaps,
not quite sure. The "rest" and "sea air" and "pleasant people" were
exactly what the doctor had prescribed for him, but that was not the
whole reason for the advertisement's retention. An association of ideas
was the real reason. Just before he found the magazine he had received
Mrs. Hall's postcard with its renewal of the invitation to visit the
Hall cottage at Wellmouth. And the Restabit Inn was at East Wellmouth.

His determination to accept the Hall invitation and make the visit was
as sudden as it was belated. The postcard came in August, but it was not