Notwithstanding that the inmates of Seven Pillars were neighbored by a disagreeable old lady, as Nathalie had mentally dubbed the occupant of the red house, the time passed pleasantly to the girl, although she had days when she longed to see Helen, to open her heart to her in confidential mood. But the lonesomeness gradually lessened, occupied as she was with her manifold household cares, her exploring trips, her visits to the Sweet-Pea ladies, and the sometime prowl for the mysterious It. To her satisfaction she soon found that by hurrying a little over her morning tasks, she not only had time to read to her friend, and to help Mona at her work, but that she did not have to miss her walks.

She finally succeeded in getting Janet to go with her to the tea-house, and that volatile young woman was so won by the charming personality of the invalid, and the sweet patience of Mona, that she not only played during her call, but made arrangements to come down twice a week and give them a musical afternoon, to the great joy of the invalid. On one of these days a party of ladies from the Hotel Look-off, out for an afternoon constitutional, dropped in for a rest and a cup of tea. They were so pleased that they told others about these musical afternoons, so it soon became quite the fashionable thing to drop in at the Sweet-Pea Tea-House, especially on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On these days a score of ladies, old and young, could frequently be seen having a social chat over the teacups, while listening to some popular ragtime air, or a classic from one of the old composers, while knitting for the soldiers.

There had been one unpleasant occurrence that had jarred Nathalie extremely, and that was that Cynthia Loretto, when she learned of the Sweet-Pea ladies and the musical afternoons, was quite insistent that Blue Robin take some of her paintings and etchings down, and hang them up so that they could be seen, in the hope of making a sale.

Nathalie, at first, had refused to accede to this request, and then she began to argue with her conscience, giving for her refusal many reasons that only existed in her imagination. Finally, Mrs. Page, with her motherly intuition, perceiving that her daughter was at war with her better self, one day led the conversation to the subject, by saying that she thought it was almost pathetic the way Cynthia yearned to make money so she could marry Mr. Buddie.

“You must remember, daughter,” she persuaded, after listening to the girl’s objections in regard to the paintings, “that even if you are not attracted to Cynthia, she has feelings, hopes, and disappointments as well as you. Some day, perhaps, you may be old and alone in the world with your living to earn, and will be almost willing to make a bore of yourself if you can only earn a little money so as to give yourself some pleasure.” Nathalie made no reply, but somehow she began to question if she were really trying to live up to her motto to be helpful and kind, or was it just a make-believe thing with her, as she called it. The next day she reluctantly broached the subject to Miss Whipple, and, to her surprise, found that she would be very pleased to have the paintings and etchings on the wall. “The room really needs papering,” the lady explained, “and they will help to hide such disfigurements as stains and tack-holes on the faded paper.” This conclusion settled the matter very satisfactorily to Cynthia, and made Nathalie rejoice that she had, after all, come out conqueror in her fight with self.

The girl had begun to wonder why she did not hear from Mrs. Van Vorst as to when her boys were coming, when a letter arrived. To her great joy it announced that they would be due at the Sugar Hill station the following Saturday, as they would leave New York in the White Mountain express, probably reaching their destination about seven in the evening. Nathalie was somewhat disappointed that the boys were not to go on to the Littleton station, where Mr. Banker had planned to meet them. But alas, she could not ask him to come all the way over to the Sugar Hill station, and then, too, she knew that he and his wife generally took little outings through the mountains every week-end.

Deeply perplexed, she pondered over the matter with no little anxiety, and then suddenly it came to her that she would see if Miss Whipple would not let her hire her machine, and then go for the boys herself. She had learned to know the mountain roads in riding with Jakes when he went to the different hotels to deliver the sweet peas. He had often let her drive, as she had previously learned to handle a car from her many rides with Grace, and had even secured a license through the insistence of her friend.

Hurrying through her work, she hastened down to the tea-house, where she found the two ladies in a state of unusual excitement, for Jakes, Miss Whipple explained, was quite ill, and they were at a loss as to how they were to get their flowers to the various hotels the following day. And the Profile House had sent in a special order, for there was to be some kind of a festivity there that evening, and they wanted the bunches of sweet peas for prizes.

“Oh, don’t worry over that,” cried the girl quickly, as she perceived their distress, “for I can deliver the flowers for you. I can drive and I know the roads, for I have been about so much with Jakes and Mr. Banker.”

After some little hesitation the two ladies consented that Nathalie should deliver the flowers, insisting, however, in return for her kindness to them, that she should have the car for her own use in the afternoon, to drive to the station for the boys.

To Nathalie it was quite a new experience, to get up in the cool gray of early dawn, dress hurriedly, swallow a hasty breakfast,—her mother was to act as housekeeper for the day,—and then hurry down to the tea-house. It did not take her long to load the car with its flowery burden, and then she was speeding through Sugar Hill village, and on to the Long Green Path, as she called the road through the woods that led to Seven Pillars and Franconia. The air was so cool from the moisture of the night dew that still lay in glistening gems and silvery cobwebs on the hilly greens, the leaves, ferns, and wild flowers, and bracing from the ozone of the mountain breezes that heralded the new-born day, that the girl’s pulses throbbed with buoyant exhilaration.

There was a moment’s stop at Seven Pillars for Janet, who had consented to accompany her, and then they were off, Nathalie happily waving her hand to Sam as he came through the pasture with the cows. A few moments later they were whirling past Roslinwood Farm, with its big white barn, and then past a long, low, white-gabled, red-chimneyed building, with the old-time hostelry sign, “Peckett’s on Sugar Hill,” swinging from its porte-cochÈre, with its flower-garden, riotous with many-colored blooms, across the road, almost under the shadow of Garnet’s sloping meadow.

Now they were flying down the long sloping hill, around the tiny white schoolhouse at the cross-roads, and then they were passing Garnet’s grassy hillside, as it nodded a greeting to its taller fellows, the Franconia Range, that towered on the girls’ right. Its verdant meadows were squared with cobble-stone ledges, and awave with the glossy plumage of stately trees, as it rose upward from the road, until its slope was lost in a tangle of feathery treetops which crowned its summit like a cap of green.

“The Echoes,” a homey little hotel nestling at the base of the green hill, with its square white tower, peeped picturesquely from the protecting sweep of graceful willows and silvery poplars. Here they had a magnificent view of the mountains as they rose from their mists of gray, their rugged crests, spires, and domes sharply outlined against a glorious riot of sunrise color.

Lafayette, the king of the range, towered his grizzly head in blue-hazed grandeur far upward, standing like some giant up from the mists that covered the valleys below like a silver lake, while Lincoln’s rounded summit, with its twin slides, was almost hidden by trailing wreaths of pearly gray. The gaps between the Sleeping Infant, sharp-peaked Garfield, the North and South Twins, and the Sleeping Giant, were so thickly silvered with mist that the peaks of these mountains looked like islets of green on a shimmering gray sea, with their tops scarfed with pink and violet streaks, that floated mistily against the golden splendor, reflected from the crimson-hued ball in the east.

Directly before them rose the undulating slope of Breakneck Hill, bowing in gentle humility to the more rugged beauty of the lofty range opposite, while between the widening gap, far in the distance, loomed the Presidential Range, their tops white-wreathed with cloud. Mount Washington, with majestic stateliness, soared far above his comrades, while the smaller mountains below and on the left, scattered here and there through the cleft between the two ranges, gleamed gray, purple, and pink, as they peered at them from their hoods of gray.

It was a swift whirl down the half-mile hill, and then they were passing through the little mountain village of Franconia, with its white cottages, its stone sidewalks, its beautiful Gale River, with its bush-fringed banks and little stone tower, surrounded by level stretches of green pasture-land, merging into the low foothills that skirted the higher range. It was a wonderful ride through that five-mile Notch, in the glint of the rose-tipped sunlight, with the ever-changing flash from one mountain-picture to another, each one gripping you with the witchery of the illusive charm of Nature in her varying moods, now frolicsome, gay, or blithe, or strangely stilled in the grandeur of a sunrise calm.

As the girl came down the steps of the Profile House, her first stopping-place, she paused a moment and peered up at Eagle Cliff, a precipitous wall of rock opposite, rising to the height of fifteen hundred feet above the road. It was thickly set with evergreens, climbing birches, maples, and spruces, and intermingled with patches of a softer green, from where purple-tinted bits of rock, like giant’s eyes, looked down upon the wayfarers that traversed the road beneath.

Nathalie had heard that the cliff had received its name from the “Arabs of the air,” which at one time had lodged in its airy heights. But evidently they had long since departed, and after a disappointed glance, as her eyes swept the tall steeps, she rejoined Janet in the car, and was soon guiding it through the green-wooded road to her next halting-place, some few miles beyond.

This was the Flume House, a long, low, yellow building, grouped about with mountain crags,—the gateway to the Flume, a remarkable fissure in Liberty Mountain, over fifty feet deep, and several hundred long, where an ice-cold cascade dashed with snowy spray, to flow in more quiet mood over ledges of granite rocks between perpendicular walls.

After leaving their flowers at the office the girls started on their homeward way. The distance was soon traversed as they chattered of the scene before them, sometimes hushed into stillness by the sudden surprise of some wonderful trick of Nature as they flew swiftly past.

As they reached the little schoolhouse at the crossroads Janet descended from the car to walk up the hill to the house, while Nathalie continued on her way. She had soon passed the artist’s bungalow, with its studio, on her left, and Hildreth’s maple-sugar farm, with its big barn, coming out shortly at the little red Episcopal church, with the deserted, falling-to-pieces hotel, the Marimonte, just beyond on a knoll.

It did not take her long to ascend the long hilly slope to the Hotel Look-off, where a basket of sweet peas were left, and then she had swung her car around and was speeding down the declivity to the Sunset Hill House, where she again brought her car to a halt.

As she neared the big entrance-door, heavily burdened with her flowers, she came face to face with her two New York friends, who were sauntering carelessly from the office, evidently having lingered over a late breakfast. As the girl sighted the familiar faces she forgot their apparent slight of a few days before and nodded pleasantly, her cheeks dimpling with pleasure. But, to her surprise, a rigid stare was their only response to her greeting, and, with a sudden start of shocked dismay, the girl hastened past them into the office, where she was relieved of her flowers by one of the bell-boys.

Smarting from the rankle of the insult, but still dazed at the suddenness of it, she walked slowly down to the car and mechanically stepped into it. As she glided down the road she sat stiff and erect, her mind apparently on the steering-wheel, although in reality her senses were in a maze of dumb bewilderment.

A half-hour later, after running the car into the stable, for she was to use it again later, she made her way into the house, up to her room, and to her closet. Here, with her face buried in the blackness of hanging skirts and coats, she stood silently for a few moments, trying to argue herself out of the hurt feeling that would not be downed.

“Oh, what a little ninny I am,” she exclaimed at last. “What do I care if they did give me the ‘go by,’ as Dick says.” She gave a half laugh, that quickly merged into a long sigh as the thought came, that, after all, the girls had not really hurt her as much as they had hurt themselves. “No, I will not allow myself,” she closed her mouth determinedly, “to be so small as to let it hurt me any more.”

She had a very restful afternoon, with a good long nap, and a nice time reading out in the hammock, and then, a little before six, she set out on her ride to the station in a tense state of expectancy, for she was anxious to see her Liberty boys, as she had elected to call them.

The drive was a delightful one after the burden and heat of the day, and she bowled swiftly along, slackening her speed every now and then to admire an unusually fine landscape view, or the golden, violet-tinted clouds that drifted up from the west. She had just turned into her last lap, as she called it, for she knew that she must be very near the station, when, with a sudden skidding motion, her car came to a standstill. She got out and cranked it, but although there was plenty of gasoline still on hand, it refused to go. She poked about, here and there, to see what had caused the stoppage, but although she cleaned out her carburetor and saw that her spark-plugs were all right, she failed to discover what was wrong. Her heart began to beat feverishly, for she was well aware that, although she could drive a car, in reality she knew little about its mechanism, and therefore could not remedy any very serious trouble. She got down and crawled under the car, to examine first one part and then another, but alas! it was exasperatingly useless, for she could see nothing wrong, and she finally crawled out again, covered with dust and grime. At this moment she heard the far-distant whistle of an oncoming locomotive, realizing with a pang of despair, that it was the White Mountain express, and that she would not be at the station to meet the boys.

Suddenly her face gleamed hopefully, for at that moment she heard the near hum of an automobile, and the next second saw it whirl around the curve in the road. “Oh, perhaps it will be a man who can help me,” quickly flashed through her mind, as she peered intently at the nearing car. And then she almost laughed aloud from sheer joy, for, yes, the car was driven by a man, who, with one quick glance at the girl’s flushed face, and the stranded vehicle, brought his car to a standstill and jumped quickly out.

As the man came towards the girl, who had begun to pleadingly explain her mishap, and the hurry she was in, Nathalie caught her breath with a startled gasp, as she suddenly was made aware that he was the bold-eyed man who had accosted her in the post-office a week or so before, and who had spoken to her near the cemetery. But she was so distressed and fearful that she would miss the boys—poor little things, what would they do if there was no one there to meet them!—that this fact was submerged in the greatness of her need.

In a moment or so she had regained her customary poise, as the young man, after a cursory glance over the machine, discovered what was wrong. Ah, it was a short-circuit. With a wrench he took from his pocket, he soon adjusted the difficulty, and then turned smilingly towards the girl, and with another of his bold stares assured her that her car was all right.

Nathalie involuntarily stepped back, and then, half ashamed of her timidity when the man had been so kind, cried hastily: “Oh, I am so much obliged to you! I do not know what I should have done, if you had not come along. Thank you, very much,” she ended abruptly, then, pleading that she must hurry, she cranked her car, and, with a little stiff bow, stepped into it, and a moment later was whirling down the road.

But she had not gotten rid of her helper as quickly as she thought, for it was only a second, as it seemed to her, when, on turning her head as she heard the throb of a machine in her rear, she saw, with a sudden qualm of fear, that the man was following her. “Oh why does he do that?” she thought in nervous apprehension. “Yes, he must be following me,” she mentally decided, “for he was going in the opposite direction when I hailed him.”

But sensibly determining to pay no attention to him, she kept on her way, although an aggravating dread assailed her that she could not account for, that the man might waylay, and try to rob her, the bold glance of his eyes having filled her with a feeling of distrust.

Ah, she was at the station. As she glided up to the little wooden platform she peered anxiously around, but no one was in sight. Bringing her car to a halt, she jumped hastily out and scurried around to the other side of the platform, only to see the ticket-agent locking up the waiting-room, as he prepared to depart on his nightly journey home, as the station was only open for certain trains.

“Did you see any little boys get off the White Mountain express?” inquired the girl breathlessly.

“Why, yes,” replied the man, as he slipped the door-key into his pocket, “I saw three,—no, four boys. They waited around here for some time, and then they went away. They looked like foreigners; one little chap must have been an Italian, for he carried a violin under his arm, and wore a queer embroidered vest.”

“Did you notice in what direction they went?” cried the girl, while a chilled feeling swept over her as to the fate of the boys. Oh, suppose they should get lost in those mountain woods!

No, the man had not noticed, and Nathalie with a dejected attitude, turned away, nervously wondering what to do, and where to look. Well, she must do something, for those boys must have been the ones Mrs. Van Vorst had sent to her. Once more she was in her car, and then, in sudden desperation, she determined to try every road in succession,—for there were several leading from the station,—until she found them, for surely they could not have gone very far, as they were walking. Buoyed with this thought, she plunged into the graying shadows of the road nearest to her, dimly conscious that the bold-eyed man in the automobile, who had been circling around the little square of green in front of the station, was close behind her.