Their travels, which it seems were undertaken in the spirit of a voyage of discovery and adventure, finally led them to the old Curtis House at Point Pleasant on the New Jersey coast.

But the Point Pleasant of that time had very little in common with the present well-known summer resort.

In those days the place was reached after a long journey by rail followed by a three hours' drive in a rickety stagecoach over deep sandy roads, albeit the roads did lead through silent, sweet-smelling pine forests.

Point Pleasant itself was then a collection of half a dozen big farms which stretched from the Manasquan River to the ocean half a mile distant.
Nothing could have been more primitive or as I remember it in its pastoral loveliness much more beautiful.

Just beyond our cottage the river ran its silent, lazy course to the sea.