She nodded.
"Yes; that is what I meant."
They pushed on up the hill, without many words.
The little enclosure and the graven stone had made them thoughtful. Arriving at the peak they found, at the brow of a cliff, a broad, shelving stone which hung out over a deep, wooded hollow, where here and there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they could look across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of the hermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed to lie almost at their feet.
At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then at last Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.
"If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter before her," he said.
It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her—"The Victory of Defeat"; it was only a tale of a man's love, devotion and sacrifice, but it was told so simply, with so little attempt to make it seem a story, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation, that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward a surrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constance interrupted, to say:
"Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret his story. I did not know you had that quality in your voice."
He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid the manuscript down he waited for her comment. It was rather unexpected.
"You must be very fond of the one who wrote that," she said.