To all of which we bowed our heads in silence—but the frivolous,
European-minded Rosalind who had got us into this trouble retorted with a
grave face: "Wouldn't you just love, dear Miss——, to walk from
Hackensack to Omaha?"

Another voice was kind enough to explain for our encouragement that the traveller found in a place exactly what he brought there, and that romance was a personal gift, all in the personal point of view.

"A sort of cosmetic you apply to the face of Nature," footnoted our irrepressible friend.

Still another reminded us that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive," and still another strongly advised us to carry revolvers.

So, taking with us our maps and much good advice, we bade farewell to our friends, and walked back to our camp under the stars—the same stars that were shining over Constantinople.

The next day, when all our preparations were complete, the shack swept and garnished, and our knapsacks bulging in readiness for the road, Colin took his brushes, and in a few minutes had decorated one of the walls with an Autumn sunset—a sort of memorial tablet to our Summer, he explained.

"Can't you think up a verse to put underneath?" he asked.

Then underneath he lettered:

_Two lovers of the Sun and of the