There was a frightened look on the faces of the children for a moment or so, and then Sheila cried in a distressed tone, “But, Miss Natty, I don’t know how to pray that way.”

Danny immediately flung about and flashed an annihilating look upon the little girl, but Nathalie, drawing the child close, explained what a silent prayer meant. Then, as she solemnly bowed her head, every little head went down, and for the space of a moment or so, up there on that high mountain,—that Nathalie always felt must be very close to God,—there was a reverent silence, a sacred moment, as from each child-heart went up a prayer. Perhaps it was only a dumbly spoken word, or a reverent desire, but surely God heard.

As Nathalie raised her head, and the children followed her example,—evidently there had been some peeping eyes,—all but Jean, who still kept his head down, his pale lips slowly moving, there was a moment’s quiet, and then Nathalie exclaimed, “Oh, boys, what do you say to calling these rocks a fort?”

“Crackie! that will be dandy!” responded Danny quickly. “And, Miss Nathalie,” he added, his face lighting with sudden thought, “why can’t we call it Liberty Fort?”

And so the round ledge of cobble-stones was named Liberty Fort, and then, before Nathalie realized what the suggestion carried, Tony proposed that the path at the foot of the terrace on which the fort stood, on the summit of the lower slope leading down to the meadow, be a trench.

Other suggestions followed, which culminated in a lengthy discussion, leading the children the following afternoon to the woods, where they gathered dried leaves, and little pebbles and twigs, to fill some bags, which Janet and Nathalie had made out of some old potato-sacks, to represent sand-bags to pile on top of the trench. The two girls meanwhile sat in the fort and not only made epaulettes for the young soldiers’ shoulders, but also gas-masks, which these Sons of Liberty vociferously declared that they must have, or they would be gassed.

After the Stars and Stripes, with the various flags of the Allies, had been fastened to a pole and mounted on the fort, the battle of the Marne took place, represented by these small soldiers, with guns held high, leaping over the sand-bags and rushing madly down the slope to the meadow below, which had been named “No Man’s Land.” Here, with eyes aflame and hair all tousled, they fought frenziedly with the imaginary gray uniforms of the German soldiery, who were supposed to have rushed towards them from their entrenchments, the stone wall by the road just beyond the meadow.

It was great sport, notwithstanding that their helmets—old tin pails—would insist upon falling over their faces just when some very wonderful capture was about to be made. But they soon learned not to mind a little thing like that, as Danny observed with officer-like brusqueness—he was the general-in-chief of these liberty forces—that only slackers or mollycoddles would stop fighting for a hat. So they fought most furiously, imitating in every way possible the maneuvers and tactics of the soldiers in France.

They took possession of a rustic seat on the ridge near the woods for an outpost, and here Sheila, with a big paper soldier’s cap on her head, was posted to parade with military precision before it as a sentry. Danny, meanwhile would climb a tree, to watch a make-believe enemy’s aËroplane, or to play the rÔle of a bird-man, getting ready to fly in a patrol over the enemy’s entrenchments.

The parts the little girl played were numerous, sometimes acting as a canteen girl, selling lemonade and make-believe “smokes,”—twigs trimmed to represent cigarettes,—or again, playing the part of a captured Boche, always insisting that she was a prince, or some high German official. She entered into the playing of holding up her hands in token of surrender, while calling “Kamerad” with dramatic fervor. Then, as if suddenly reminded that she was a scion of royalty, she would take to fighting and kicking furiously to be released, bringing her teeth into action, and inflicting sundry bites on her captor with such energy that Nathalie, or Janet, tricked out with a white head-gear, starred with a red cross, would hurry to the scene, and bind up with soft rags the wounds of the afflicted one.

Jean, who had begun to prove that his real self was only lying dormant beneath a shroud of sorrow, was triumphantly happy as the bugler, and one day suggested that they have a tank,—he had seen one on a battle-field. An old tin can was then procured from Sam, which had done duty in holding chicken-feed. It was now made to roll, in a horribly queer way, down the slope and over No Man’s Land, maneuvered by Jean, who was inside of it, and who proved that he was a keen trailer of the Boches, as the lad always called the Germans.

The boy frightened Nathalie, sometimes, by the intense hatred he displayed whenever the Germans were mentioned, as his face would grow tense and a sudden fire would flame up in his eyes, while his one hand would clench rigidly and his little form trembled with the force of the passion within his breast.

But the children did not always play at war in France, for sometimes they were Indians, and would wriggle over the grass snake-fashion. They were all sachems, or big chiefs, named after some red-skinned hero of some Indian tale Nathalie had told them, each one intent on scalping some white man. Sometimes Jean would teach the boys how to play some of the games played in Belgium, as jet, a game which seemed to be played with a stick on a stone, and which they all seemed to enjoy. Then again they would play hopscotch in Jean’s way, and which he called “Kalinker.” But always at the end of their play they would line up in the circling ledge of stones, and, as if inspired by Nathalie’s suggestion on the day of their first visit to the fort, stand very still as they again bowed their heads in a silent prayer for the boys who were fighting “over there.”

Then, one morning, a telephone message came from Mr. Banker that he would be up that afternoon and take the children to the Flume. Whereupon they all became so exuberantly happy that Nathalie had rather a hard time pinning them down to their usual duties.

After a delightful drive, in which Nathalie and Mr. Banker were kept busy answering the many queries propounded by the sightseers, as they gazed in awed wonder at the strange rock formations with their purple and green tints, the silvery waterfalls, and the many natural beauties of the Notch, they arrived at the Flume.

Here, opposite the Flume House, they climbed a zigzagging path up a hill backed by two massive mountains, and then went through a belt of woodland to inspect the Pool. This was a mountain freak, a great basin over a hundred feet wide and forty deep, hollowed out by the Pemigewasset River’s age-old tools, sand and water, as they flowed over its rocky bed.

The lustrous green of its waters rippling between lichen-covered cliffs, and canopied by overhanging trees—that looked as if they would fall from age—was so transparent that the children could see the shiny pebbles at the bottom of the Pool.

On returning to the road they started for the Flume, passing over a wooden bridge, and then up an incline, a sort of up-hill-and-down-dale road, as it followed the mountain brook flowing from the cascade that dashed over the rocks at the head of the gorge. The wild picturesque beauty of this “Gallery of the Gods,” as Mr. Banker called it, not only elicited many exclamations from the children, but brought forth more weird fancies from Sheila, which challenged the humorous gleam in that gentleman’s eyes many times.

The child’s mind was so rich in imagery, that every hooded mountain or queer-shaped cliff, every passing cloud or glint of sunlight as it filtered down through the leaves in the forest, and the soft patter of the raindrops as they danced on the window-pane in a storm, were sources of constant delight. In childish prattle she would tell Nathalie what the wind said as it swept through the trees, or came with a soft rustle around the corner of the veranda on a breezy day. The soft twirl of a leaf, the trill of a bird in the silent forest, were all pixie-whispers.

She would pick up a leaf from the road, beautiful to her in its satiny greenness, or some gay-petaled flower, and talk to it as if it were her dolly, or some tricksy creature from fairy-land, always giving it some fanciful name that was keenly suggestive of its nature. Animals she caressed and fondled with the fearless confidence and love of trusting childhood.

They finally reached the remarkable rock gallery in the very heart of the mountain, which Nathalie now introduced to them as Liberty Mountain. She explained that it was cut in two by the deep gorge, or fissure, known as The Flume, whose walls reached to a perpendicular height of fifty or seventy feet, while at its farther end a mountain-brook came dashing down with great splashes of white foam.

The children were hushed to profound wonder at the frowning gloom of the great wall that reached so high and dark above their heads, with its patches of green moss, and where, from its many crevices, young birches had fastened their roots, and ferns and vines clung to soften its harsh gray. Every now and then a tiny white mountain-flower could be seen peeping down at them, like a fairy, Sheila declared, from a mossy bed of green.

They climbed up and up, stepping from rock to rock, to clamber at last over the slippery smoothness of the granite ledges. Here the cascade had simmered to a lazy flow, to eddy with a silver tinkling into the many hollows that perforated the rocks, making tiny glistening pools, which gave the children unfeigned delight as they dipped their hands in its soft trickle.

But when they reached the narrow foot-bridge, sometimes only railed by a single birch pole, or a rope that clung tremblingly to one side of the steep wall, and looked down into the gorge below, they came to a sudden halt. With a haunting fascination they watched the brook as it now dashed with a mad plunge, splashed with patches of snowy foam, over the masses of green-embossed boulders, that looked as if they had been tossed, helter-skelter fashion, into the narrow slit of rock, in angry mood, by old Father Time.

With strange awe they glanced up the gorge, through the weird gloom of the scene, at the pearly glitter of the falling water, with its blur of green background, that appeared as if some miraculous hand had suddenly wrenched the earth apart to send forth its flashing spray. And then they grew curiously still as they spied the eerie shadows on the high black wall, where the sunlight, as it glinted down into the glen in wanton sport, played hide-and-seek with golden glimmer.

But the silence was broken as Mr. Banker pointed out a huge tree-trunk that had fallen across the stream, reaching from side to side of the gorge, making an aËrial pathway high above their heads. When the gentleman said it was called “The Devil’s Bridge,” and that sometimes people had walked on it across the gorge, their tongues began to clatter.

Fired by curiosity, the boys regained their nerve and pushed manfully up the foot-bridge, barred with slats, like a horse’s plank, while Mr. Banker, holding little Sheila by the hand, followed close behind. Nathalie, with a strange timidity, hesitatingly followed, always being oppressed by an odd, queer feeling when ascending any great height, a feeling that she wanted to cling to something more tangible than space. But there was nothing to cling to but that shaky old railing, and little Jean was hanging to it fearsomely with his one hand, his little form shaking tremulously, and his eyes black with an odd fear.

Stirred to pity, Nathalie drew the child to the other side of her, near the high wall, away from that gaping rut in the earth beneath, and then caught him firmly by the shoulder. Then suddenly, perhaps it was a quick glance down into the depths below, she felt a strange, indefinable sensation pass through her. A deathly faintness seized her; she closed her eyes, and then she felt herself falling, falling——

But a pitiful cry from the boy, “Oh, Mademoiselle Natty! No, you not fall! Jean will hold you,” aroused her, and she opened her eyes to see the white face of the boy, as he stared up at her while clutching her frantically with his one hand.

“Oh, no, Jean; I’m all right now,” but even as she spoke that same old sensation again thrilled her. She felt sick and faint again, and then——

“Rather steep just here, isn’t it? But cling to that rail, and you’ll be all right; you can’t fall.”

The girl turned quickly, once more roused from the sudden fear that had assailed her, and found herself gazing into the sun-tanned face of a young man in khaki. He had slipped his arm back of her, against the railing, as if to prevent her from falling, while from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat two dark-blue eyes, heavily lashed, smiled down at her reassuringly.

Nathalie heaved a deep sigh. Oh, it was such a relief to see that strong, brown hand grasping the rail. And then, with a quick little smile, in sudden realization of her foolish fancy that she was slipping down into the gorge below, she cried, “Oh, I don’t suppose I could fall, but something—— O dear! I know I am very foolish, but I always feel so queer when I stand on any great height, especially when I look down.”

“That is a sensation that is shared by many people when they get up in the air, I guess,” was the kindly response. And then, as if to give the girl time to regain her poise, he turned to Jean. “Do you see that place between the walls?” directing the child’s gaze to a place midway between the top of the gorge and the brook below. “Well, ever since the Flume has been known to white men,” he continued, “a great rock, or boulder, was wedged, or suspended, between the two walls. It was like a nut in a cracker, a most curious sight.

“I remember it as a child, when up in the mountains,” he related, “and always had a strange fear that it would tumble down. But every one asserted that it was an impossibility, for it would take an earthquake, or some great convulsion of nature, to dislodge it. Nevertheless I always fought shy of it, and would scurry by as if a witch was after me. But, strange to say,” continued the young man, smiling, and showing his even white teeth, “the prophets were away off, for it fell just a few years ago, and without the aid of an earthquake.”

“Oh, did it fall on any one?” gasped the girl quickly.

“No, luckily for the wise-alls; for it fell in the middle of the night, and no one was hurt.”

Nathalie drew a relieved sigh. “What an escape! Oh, suppose it had fallen when some one was passing beneath it!”

“Well, they would have been pulverized,” laughed the young man. “I beg your pardon, Miss, but would you not like to have me help you to the top? For I see you have the little boy with you, and, as you are timid, I do not think I would risk it alone.”

“Oh, thank you; you are very kind,” replied the girl hastily, her face dimpling, for she had begun to feel like her old self. “But no; I don’t think I will venture any farther. I guess I am too timid. I will go back.” She glanced down at Jean, who was gazing up at the young soldier with worshipful awe in his eyes.

“Let me assist you down, then, to where you will not be affected by the height.” And Nathalie, glad to think that she did not have to turn back and go down that plank alone, allowed the young man to pilot her down, firmly grasping her by the arm, until she stood where she asserted she felt no fear. She would wait there on the rocks, until the rest of her party came down, she said, after thanking her rescuer.

The young man bowed silently, lifted his hat, and turned to ascend the foot-bridge again, while Nathalie sought a rock where she and Jean could sit down. But in a moment he was back at her side, crying, “I beg your pardon,” Nathalie noticed that he had a pleasant voice that somehow had a familiar ring to it, “but perhaps the little boy would like to go up to the top, as every one likes to see the cascade as it plunges over the rocks. I will take good care of him if he would like to go,” glancing at the little empty sleeve with a compassionate expression in his eyes. Nathalie was on the verge of saying, “Oh, no; I think Jean would rather stay with me,” when she caught a sudden expression in the boy’s eyes that caused her to say, “Jean, would you like to go to the top with this gentleman? Mr. Banker and the boys are up there, you know.”

There was no doubt as to the child wanting to see and to do as the other children, or his evident trust in the young soldier, and a minute later the young man, with Jean’s hand held firmly in his, was guiding the child’s steps up the foot-bridge.

Some time later, as the car glided along the road on its homeward journey, a short distance from the Flume House, Mr. Banker showed the party a singular rock-formation, caused by the undulations of the topmost ridge of Liberty Mountain. The outlines were those of a huge recumbent figure, wrapped in a cloak or shroud, and bore such a close resemblance, especially the contour of the forehead and nose, to those of General Washington, as after his death he lay in state, on view to the public, that it had been called “Washington in State.” Many people, he asserted, claimed that the great American’s body should lie at rest on this mountain ridge, named for what the great man had striven so hard to maintain, liberty, and thus be his everlasting mausoleum.

A six-mile ride and they descended from the car, to walk to the shores of Profile Lake, a few feet from the road. But it was not to look at the sunlit sheen of silver water, embedded like a gem in a green and purple forest setting, but to gaze with awesome wonder at a huge stone face. It was the Old Man of the Mountain that gazed forth with a stony stare from a steep and craggy setting, twelve hundred feet high above the lake, on the battlemented spires of Profile, or Cannon Mountain.

It was another weird formation created by Father Time, that Mr. Banker claimed looked as if it had been stuck on the huge mountain-cliff, like the head of some criminal of medieval days, when spiked on the stone gateway of some kingly stronghold for some dastardly deed.

“But this face is not that of a felon, for note the calm majesty, the beautiful benignity of its expression. To me,” commented the gentleman, “it is an unchangeable token and an everlasting confirmation that there is a Creator, and bears witness to the account in Genesis where it says that God created man in His own image, ‘in the image of God created he him.’”

Mr. Banker explained that the face was composed of three masses of rock, one forming the forehead and helmet, another the nose and upper lip, and the third the chin, and that the whole length of the rock-face was eighty feet from the top to the bottom. When viewed at a close range it lost its contour, and seemed but a few huge rocks tumbled one upon another, with no regularity of form or feature.

After the boys had studied the gigantic “face in air,” as Sheila called it, and deciphered many oddities upon it, evoked by her imagination, Nathalie told them the story of “The Great Stone Face.”

They were all greatly interested in Hawthorne’s tale, and readily grasped its meaning, that, after all, it was goodness and greatness gained by studying the great and good in others, the giving of our best to our fellows as Sons of Liberty, Nathalie tried to explain, that helped one to become godlike.

Mr. Banker then told the legend called Christus Judex, which told of an artist, who had resolved to paint a picture of Christ sitting in judgment, and how he wandered up and down the world from one place to another, seeking in art galleries, palaces, or churches, a face that would serve him as a model for his great masterpiece. But alas, it was not to be found, not even among the paintings of the old masters, and finally, lured by some wayfarer’s tale, he crossed the sea, and in this great stone face found the countenance that embodied the features and the expression that satisfied his ideal.

After walking a short distance around the lake, to view its beauties, and picking out the stone cannon on the top of the mountain, they drove to the Basin, another rock-wonder, a miniature edition of the great Pool. Giant’s Heel, a rock-formation of a human leg and foot, seemed to possess a luring charm to the children, and after they had studied it, and then discussed it with curious wonder and awe, the little party started on their homeward drive.

On the way Mr. Banker pointed out various stone formations, among them the Elephant’s Head and the head of a dog, while Echo Lake, alight with the calm glow of a setting sun, revealed so many tempting bits of lake-wonders that the children begged that they might spend a day there, as it was not far from Franconia village.

Nathalie was unusually quiet on the homeward ride, not only feeling almost too tired to talk, but pondering with a puzzled air over the young soldier-boy. She had a vague feeling that she had seen his face before, but where? She finally determined to push the matter from her mind, when a sudden smile leaped to her eyes. Oh, what a ninny she was, for he was one of the soldier-boys she had met at Camp Mills, to whom she had proffered the cherries! And he had not only helped to gather them up from the dust of the road, but he was the boy who had waved his hat to them in a parting salute as the car whirled out of sight!