her talk, and had so
much to say about the history and the legends of the region of
which she had read, that he felt that she was in no mood for what he
intended to say. As the time passed he grew nervously apprehensive
over his project, and at last they started on their return with his
plan unfulfilled. They agreed to try a path to their left, which was
scarcely distinguishable, and it soon appeared to end at a point that
sloped almost perpendicularly to a wild gorge that ran up between the
hills.

"That must be what is down on the map as Tamper Clove," said Madge;
"and do you know, some think that it was up that valley Irving made
poor Rip carry the heavy keg? Oh, I wish we could get down into it and
go back that way!"

"Let me explore;" and he began swinging himself down by the aid of
saplings and smaller growth. "Some one has passed here recently," he
called back, "for trees are freshly blazed and branches broken. Yes,"
he cried, a moment later; "here is a well-defined path leading up the
clove toward the hotel. Do you think you dare attempt it?"

"Certainly," she answered; and before he could reach her she was
half-way down the descent.

"Madge!" he cried, in alarm.

"Oh, don't worry," she said; "I was over worse places in the West."

"Well, what can't she do!" he exclaimed, as she stood beside him in
the path.

"I can't give up my own way very easily," she replied. "You have found
that out."

"That don't trouble me in the least. I don't wish you to give up your
own way. It's warm down here, and our walk won't be so breezy as if we
had followed the ridge."

"We will take it leisurely and have a rest by and by."

The gorge grew narrower and wilder. They passed an immense tree, under
which Indians may have bivouacked, and in some storm long past the
lightning had plowed its way from the topmost branch to its gnarled
roots.

At last the path crossed a little rill that tinkled with a faint
murmur among the stones, making a limpid pool here and there. Immense
bowlders, draped with varied-hued mosses and lichens, were scattered
about, where in ages past the melting glacier had left them. The trees
that densely shaded the place seemed primeval in their age, loftiness,
and shaggy girth.

"Oh, what a deliciously cool and lovely spot!" cried Madge, throwing
down her alpenstock. "Get me some oak leaves, Graydon, and I will make
you a cup and give you a drink."

In a moment she made a fairy chalice with the