CHAPTER III.

A BURNING August afternoon on Lake Winnepesaukee, hardly a ripple stirred, no sound of life but the monotonous chirp-chirp from the woody shores, and the lapsing water-beats on the white sand.

The silence was broken by the appearance of a small row-boat containing two people. One was a young man dressed in a comfortable-looking yachting costume, very much browned, however, by exposure to a New Hampshire sun; the other was a young woman dressed in much the same manner, except so far as the distinguishing marks of female attire went, with a very jaunty and coquettish hat set atop of a cluster of very bewitching brown curls. He was rowing rather leisurely toward the little white beach - if such it may be called - that bordered the inlet whither they had come; she was holding a Chinese sun-umbrella in a position calculated to shelter her fair face from the inquisitive glance of the sun, and trailing her free hand in the wake of the little craft, - a most fascinating performance, on the whole.

Presently they landed on the sandy shore; and, when he had drawn the boat beyond the chance of its being carried off, they walked side by side up a little eminence that overlooked the lake, and then seated themselves beneath the trees, in a position that was both picturesque and pleasant; she leaning idly against a great brown trunk, he stretched upon the grass, leaning his head upon his hand. It was cooler here than anywhere else, and that was a point gained; besides, they could look off

"Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles

Dimple round its hundred isles,"

and see the burnished waters in the sun, the tufted crags and narrowing inlets, the long stretches of forest, and finally, like a sheltering rim, the purple hills. Yes, this was decidedly pleasant - to me especially - who was the young man in question, for it was in the charming village of Centre Harbor that I found myself during the vacation which followed my Junior year.

Already, the unexplained tragedy, in which I had six months before played so large a part, was beginning to look very far off; already that horrible nightmare was passing away in the clearer light of the days that followed. But I could not wholly forget the terrible vision. Stephen May-more had vanished utterly from human knowledge, and I - I had seen the face of his murderer. That was the fact which persistently followed me, the conviction I could not contradict. Often I awoke in the middle of the night, shivering and ghost-haunted, from some second vision of death and fate. What was the mystery? Where was Stephen Maymore? Always the old question; no answer, no appeal from this.

But I could not remain entirely miserable under this trouble; indeed, if I could have had some confidant it might have been easier to bear. But I was a young man, and not naturally a despondent one; and therefore I regained to some extent my usual good spirits before the summer had passed. And perhaps the companionship of Miss Edith Austen had helped solace me. She was truly a very charming girl, - her glass and her friends told her so, - and I think she fully believed it; she had her little vanities, which she carefully concealed from the public gaze. I was very willing to join in the universal verdict, and - she was very willing that I should. I cannot truthfully say, however, that our relations had as yet assumed any very sentimental aspect; she never would quite allow that. Yet I believe that she preferred me to the other aspirants for her favor who made nuisances of themselves (in my estimation at least) at our hotel. On this afternoon, at any rate, she had left behind a dozen unhappy and vindictive admirers, in order to explore, in my company, what little portion of Lake Winnepesaukee we could hope to cover easily in the hot August sunshine. Thus it came about that we were under the trees by the lakeside, very happy - one of us.

We had been chatting gayly for some time, and then had fallen into thoughtful silence. Presently she said, with ever so faint a smile, -

"Two weeks more, and then - Boston again."

"And may I suppose that you are sorry to return - or glad?"

"Yes; it is one of the most beautiful spots in the world."

I was looking at her lovely face when she said it, and I agreed with her. But she had been gazing northward at the "little hamlet lying white in its mountain-fold."

"Do you not hope to come here another summer?" I asked.

"Perhaps; but not to stay so long. We should go to Bethlehem or North Conway, for a change."

"Are you, then, so eager to lose sight of - of old associations?"

What she said I do not remember. Perhaps this whole dialogue does not seem worth remembering. I only know that when I came to talk of the separation about to come, I thought that she grew very sober; I thought I almost saw tears in her eyes. Never mind what I saw. I drew her trembling form closer to mine; and then I knew that we two must not part for ever.

Very happy I thought myself; very happy I doubtless was. The old world had become new to me. That homeward ride over the red path of the sunset waters was a track of Paradise. But let that pass. I am not to write a love story now.

It was after supper when Edith rejoined me on the piazza. There was no one present beside ourselves; and so, in the prettiest way imaginable, she slipped her little hand in mine as we stood there.

"Who do you think has come?" she said. "My brother."

I had often heard him mentioned, and I knew that he was expected to visit Centre Harbor sometime before the end of the summer; therefore I was not greatly surprised at the news.

"That will be very pleasant," I remarked cheerfully.

"And here he himself comes all in good time," she cried, releasing her hand from mine. "Mr. Bedford, my brother Edmund."

I looked up and saw him! Oh! I saw him! I turned pale, and staggered back against the railing, trembling in every limb. For it was the face I had seen on that never-to-be-forgotten night; the face of Stephen Maymore's murderer!

(To be continued.)