"Two," he said. "One I brought over yesterday—from Utica, I think she was—and another last week, from New York, with her folks. Their names are Deane, and they own a camp up here. They're staying at the Lodge till it's ready."
"I see; and did the last young lady—the family, I mean—seem to know any one at the Lodge?"
But the youth could not say. He had taken them over with their bags and trunks and had not noticed farther, only that once or twice since, when he had arrived with the mail, the young lady had come in from the woods with a book and a basket of mushrooms, most of which he thought to be toadstools, and poisonous. Once—maybe both times—Robin had been with her—probably engaged as a guide. Robin would be apt to know about mushrooms.
Frank assented a little dubiously.
"I shouldn't wonder if we'd better be moving along," he suggested. "We might be late with that mail."
There followed another period of silence and increased speed. As they neared the North Elba post-office—a farmhouse with a flower-garden in front of it—the youth pointed backward to a hill with a flag-staff on it.
"That is John Brown's grave," he said.
His companion looked and nodded.
"I remember. My mother and I made a pilgrimage to it. Poor old John. This is still a stage road, isn't it?"
"Yes, but we leave it at North Elba. It turns off there for Keene."