But only the pleasant part of the letter from Doctor Lem was being recalled by the lad as he followed the fern-tangled banks of a stream that wound its picturesque way deeper and deeper into the wooded park. Suddenly Gene paused. Surely he heard the bird-like notes of a flute. He peered among the trees, but saw no one. Then, as he advanced, the music was hushed and he decided that, perhaps, it had been the song of a hermit thrush. There was a dense growth of evergreen trees just ahead of him. They crowded so close to the edge of the water that the lad paused, thinking that he would better go back, but, noticing a wet, mossy rock near, he stepped out upon it, and, to his delight, saw just beyond the pines the rustic cabin of which the countess had spoken.
Eager and interested, the lad half ran up the path, soft with pine needles, and tapped upon the door, wondering if the cabin were deserted. “Come in,” a deep voice called.
Gene opened the door and entered a large, square, rustic room which seemed to be both a hunting lodge and a den. A man whose face seemed too young for its crowning of grey was lounging in a deep, comfortable chair in front of a wide fireplace on which a log was burning. He wore a crimson velvet jacket and he was reading. Other books and magazines were placed on a low table near. Too, there was a flute, the notes of which Gene had heard.
The man smiled a welcome. “American?” he inquired. Gene said that he was. “Good!” motioning to a chair beyond the hearth.
“Lost?” was the next question. “No, sent,” the lad replied, then seated himself and told how he chanced to be there.
“My lady mother must have thought that you and I would like to know each other,” the man said. “You are the son of our American representative?”
“Yes, Eugene Beavers also is the name of my father.”
“Fine man! Then, you’ve been ill?”
“A long time. Breakdown in college.”
“Over-study or over-athletics?” The older man asked this with a quizzical smile.