IT was a hot, clear moonlit night.

Our newly arrived guests, after an evening given up to piano music and song, had retired to their various cubby holes.

But peace did not lie upon the house, for it was the hottest night of the season and mosquitoes—hitherto an undreaded foe, attracted by the unwonted light and the music, had descended upon us and as, of course, screens were not dreamed of in a place where the mosquito rivals the tramp in scarceness, they had entered the house and were singing their infernal songs in the ears of people fresh from a mosquitoless city.

I was mortified. It seemed a breach of hospitality to invite people up to a place where every prospect pleases and man is not so vile, and then to let loose a horde of mosquitoes upon them.

It was between three and four in the morning, and soon the first signs of dawn would be upon us.

I was trying to be comfortable in a hammock slung under the boughs of the maple, and Ellery was trying to be comfortable in another hammock slung under other boughs, but neither of us was making a success of it, although he was fitfully sleeping. There is something unmistakably enticing in the thought of depending, cool and free from a leafy arbour while the summer moon watches over one’s slumbers, and the lulling breezes croon one to unconsciousness, but loyal as I am to Clover Lodge and its vicinity, I am more loyal to truth, and that night was a night to be remembered for years even as the blizzard is remembered—but for opposite reasons.

The air was still, but the mosquitoes were not and neither were my guests. I could hear them stirring and slapping and I feared that some of them were cursing, and I longed for dawn with all my heart. Dawn and the hot day that would follow in its wake, for at least we could escape to some lofty point, where the mosquitoes would not follow us.

I knew that Tom and Benedict were used to all sorts of experiences, and I knew their wives too well to think for a moment that they would hold me responsible for the night and the winged pests, but Hepburn—

Hepburn had been raised in the lap of luxury, and when I thought of his tall form accommodating itself to the ornate but contracted sofa, I felt so uncomfortable that I thought of going in and asking him to swap couches with me—and change discomfort.

I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened by hearing a step on the gravelled path.

I was wide awake in an instant.

Between me and the moon was outlined the tall form of Hepburn, fully clothed and smoking a cigar.

“Is that you, Mr. Hepburn?” said I.

“Yes,” said he, softly, so as to awaken no one else. “Did I wake you? Pardon me.”

“Oh, that’s all right. But why are you up and dressed?”

“Why,” said he, very glibly, “the night is so beautiful and bright that it seems a sin to sleep, don’t you know. I thought I’d stroll about a bit.”

My conscience smote me.

“It was that sofa, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t say a word. Sofa’s awfully jolly, but I think I drank too much coffee.”

“What’s the matter?” said Ellery, waking up.

“What do you say to a swim?” said I.

“When?” said Ellery, sleepily.

“Why, now. How does it strike you, Mr. Hepburn?”

“Great.”

Ellery, still half asleep, rubbed his eyes and then saw Hepburn for the first time.

“Why, is it as early as that?” said he.

“Earlier,” said Hepburn, which was not so bad.

I had sat up in the hammock, and setting my feet in my slippers, I rose to my pajamaed height and said,

“This is the hottest ever. I’ll get the other fellows and we’ll go over to Marsh’s Pond and have a swim at sunrise.”

I tiptoed up to the hot box that contained Tom and Benedict and whispered to them, “Are you awake?”

Tom answered, “Oh, no, we’re sound asleep and dreaming of icebergs.”

Then I could hear him shaking the bed with suppressed laughter.

“Well, come along for a swim. Get into your old clothes and don’t make a noise.”

In a few minutes we were all ready. We passed under Minerva’s window, and although we stepped lightly we waked her and we heard her heavy feet coming down on the floor of her room.

I knew that a yawp was due, so I said in a voice loud enough to reach her, “Don’t be frightened, Minerva. It isn’t burglars. It’s Mr. Vernon going for a walk.”

“Lawdy, I thought it was more burglars,” said she, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Other voices were now heard and from the window of the spare room was thrust the head of Madge, who demanded what was the trouble.

“Lack of sleep,” said Tom. “We’re going for a swim. Down to the old swimmin’ hole, my dear.”

“What won’t men do?” said Madge, and retired to envy us our privileges.

“Might as well tell Ethel what we’re doing. She may be worried,” said I, and we walked under her window.

“Give ’em a song,” said Benedict, who was a fine baritone, and he began it, “‘Sleep no more, ladies, sleep no more.’”

He sang it as a solo as none of us knew the setting he used, but as an injunction it was needless. The ladies were not calculating on sleeping any more.

“Where are you going?” asked Ethel from somewhere out of sight.

“Oh, only down to the old swimmin’ hole,” said Tom.

“Why, there’s no swimming hole anywhere’s near,” said she.

“Marsh’s Pond, my dear,” said I. “This is a record-breaker for heat and we’re going to break the record for swimming at an unseasonable hour. We’ll be back for breakfast. Good night.”

“How far is it?” asked Tom.

“Oh, only a couple of miles or so,” said I. “We’ll take it easy there and back.”

“Please may I be excused,” said Benedict. “I’m not in training for such a walk on an empty stomach.”

“That’s easily remedied. We’ll fill up on cold lamb.”

And we did fill up, and then we started, and in spite of the heat, we enjoyed the walk. It was after three and it would need the pencil of a poet and artist combined to tell of the wonders and the beauties of that walk with the delicate indications of the coming dawn filling the east with rosy promise.

Marsh’s Pond is about two miles long and a half a mile wide, and it has at one point a sandy beach. Around it are cottages and bathing houses, most of them bearing the idyllic names that lake dwellers love to bestow upon their houses. We passed “The Inglenook” and “The Ingleside” and “Inglewild,” and “Tramp’s Rest,” and many another bearing equally felicitous titles, and at last we came to the sandy beach just as the sun cast its first golden beams on the foliage of the woods across the lake.

“Hepburn, you’............