In the afternoon we drove up Mount Willard; 'straight up Ben Lomond did we press,' but our horses seemed to find no difficulty for themselves, and made no danger for us in the ascent. I shall not attempt to describe the view. I have never seen any mountain prospect resembling that of the deep ravine (abyss?) with its convex mountain-sides. The turnpike-road, looking like a ribbon carelessly unwound, the only bit of level to be seen, and prolonged for miles. The distant mountains that bound the prospect you may see elsewhere, but this ravine, with the traces of the 'Willey Slide' on one side of it, has no parallel. Don't laugh at me for the homeliness of the simile--it suggested a gigantic cradle. Here, as elsewhere, we were dazzled by the brilliancy of the October foliage, and having found a seat quite as convenient as a sofa, though being of rock, not quite so easy, we loitered till the last golden hue faded from the highest summit. And we should have staid to see the effect of the rising moon on the summits, contrasting with the black shadows of night in the abyss, but my father had observed that our driver had neglected the precaution of blanketing his horses; and as a mother is not more watchful of a sucking-child than he is of the well-being of animals, it matters not whether they are his own, he begged us to sacrifice our romance to their safety. Alice and I walked down the mountain; it was but a half-hour's easy walk. * * * * * I have forborne talking with Alice on the subject that haunts me in spite of myself. I know I have her sympathy and her approval; and that should satisfy me. But this evening, as we were returning, she said: 'Did you feel any electric influence as we sat looking at the view Crawford's '_stranger_' sketched this morning?' 'I thought of Carl,' I honestly answered, and turned the subject. Alas! Sue, when do I not think of him? * * * * *