"No, thank you. Good night."
"Good evening, then;" and waving his hand again, Wren trotted up the avenue.
"Virtue never goes unrewarded," thought Morton; "if I hadn't joined the fellow, I might not have known about this journey."
On the next day he discovered that they had actually gone, and that, as Wren had said, Niagara was to be the ultimatum of their tour. On the following morning, he himself took the western train, and made all speed for the Falls.
CHAPTER XVIII.
If folly grows romantic, I must paint it.—Pope.
On the American side of the Niagara, a few miles below the Falls, is a deep chasm, bearing the inauspicious christening of the Devil's Hole. Near it there is—or perhaps was, for things have changed thereabouts—a path winding far down among rocks and forests, till it leads to the brink of the river. Here, darkened by the beetling cliffs and sombre forests, the Niagara surges on its way, like a compressed ocean, raging to break free. At the verge of this watery convulsion stood Holyoke and his wife, Miss Leslie, and Morton, whom they had chanced to meet that morning.
"It is very fine, no doubt," said the good-natured, though very shallow Mrs. Holyoke, "but I have no mind to take cold in these dark woods. If we stay much longer, I believe I shall go mad, looking at that rushing, foaming water, and throw myself in. Come, Harry, let us go back to daylight again."
"Just as you please," said the model husband, offering his arm.