* * * * *

We had something approaching to an adventure this evening on Echo Lake,
the loveliest of all these mountain lakes, and not more than half a mile
from our present inn--the Profile House. Our dear father consented to go
out with us, and let Alice and me, who have been well trained at that
exercise on our home-lake, take our turns with him in rowing. This lake
is embosomed in the forest, and lies close nestled under the mountains
which here have varied shape and beautiful outlines. It takes its name
from its clear echoes; we called, we sang, and my father whistled, and
from the deep recesses of the hills our voices came back as if spirit
called to spirit, musical and distinct. You know the root of fascination
there is in such a scene. The day had continued misty to the last, the
twilights at this season are at best short, and while my father was
whistling, one after another, the favorite songs of his youth, we were
surprised by nightfall. My father startled us with 'Bless me, girls,
what are you about?' (it was he who was most entranced,) 'I can not see
our landing-place!'

Neither, with all possible straining, could our younger eyes descry it.
We approached as near the shore as we dared, but could go no nearer
without the danger of swamping our boat, when suddenly we perceived a
blessed apparition, a long white signal flying, made quite obvious in
the dim light by a background of evergreens. We rowed toward it with all
our might, wondering what kind friend was waving it so eagerly. As we
approached near the shore it suddenly dropped and hung motionless, and
when we landed we saw no person and heard no footstep. I untied the
signal, and finding it a man's large, fine linen handkerchief, I eagerly
explored the corner for the name, but the name had evidently just been
torn off. Strange! We puzzled ourselves with conjectures. My father cut
us short with:

'It's that young man at the hotel: young folks like this sort of thing.'

But it was not he; we found him reading to his mother, who said she was
just about sending him to look after us.

* * * * *

Thus abruptly ended Mary Langdon's journal-letter. The reason of its
sudden discontinuance will be found in our own brief relation of the
experience of the following morning, (Monday,) which we had from all the
parties that partook in it.

Our friends were to leave the Profile House on Monday, on their ret