CHAPTER XIII

BY THEMSELVES The motor boat was made fast to a small private dock which stretched out into Raquette Lake. Sitting in the craft, as the girls and their newly wed friends, the Parson bride and groom, approached, was a man of sour, not to say forbidding countenance. He was whittling a stick, snipping the curling pieces of wood off with a formidable-looking knife, and letting them fall into the placid waters of the lake, whence they were blown away by little puffs of wind. "Who is he?" asked Rose of Sylvia in a whispe…