“Tame!” repeats Mr. Lanier, in a tone of amazement. “Why, have we not had storms and floods—” “Hallo!”—it is Rupert’s voice which speaks in the rear—“are you going to stay here all night? The fire’s made, and the coffee’s made, and Brother Eric says, come down to the cave.” “A very good suggestion,” says Mr. Lanier, rising promptly. “It is really exceedingly chilly. A fire will be very welcome.” “Even though one may have to take smoke along with it,” says Mrs. Cardigan, mischievously. The ideas which Rupert’s words have presented are more or less pleasing to all of us, so we rise and stumble down the steep path which leads to the cave. A picturesque sight greets us when we come within view of this shelter. Immediately in front of it an enormous fire is burning, lighting up the rugged, lichened face of the rock, the group of figures within the cave, and the dark forest around. To our relief, we see that the column of smoke mounts steadily upward, so that we have no annoyance on this score to dread. “That supply of fuel must be intended to last during the week you wish to stay here, Miss Norwood,” says Mrs. Cardigan, pointing to the pile of wood which lies on the farther side of the fire—an imposing pile, certainly, of freshly-cut logs. “And what are these for?” asks Mr. Lanier, pausing to regard a heap of boughs. “Those,” says Charley, “are the best substitute for mountain heather to be found in this part of the world, and form an excellent bed.—Well, Eric, you have succeeded in making the balsam-wood burn for once.” “It burns as well as any other wood if you put enough on,” answers Eric. “And if you keep puttin’ on,” adds the guide, a little dryly. We declare that it is delightful, and certainly the red heart of the fire is beautiful when we draw near and seat ourselves in front of it. Harrison lifts the coffee-pot from the coals on which it is placed, cups are produced and filled, a paper of sugar is handed round, slices of ham are broiled on the coals, Sylvia volunteers to toast some bread, but ends by deputing Rupert to do it under her direction. While we talk and laugh, and the vivid glare of the fire lights up the gypsy scene, the silver moon looks serenely down upon us—for our cave faces due east—as if with a large-minded tolerance for human weakness. After this we are sufficiently tired to think of rest. Even Sylvia owns that her eyes are slightly heavy. “We were waked at such a barbarous hour this morning!” she says, by way of excuse for this fact. “And you will be waked at a still more barbarous hour to-morrow morning, if you want to see the sunrise,” says Eric. “I don’t know what the rest may be,” says Rupert, yawning, “but I’m dead tired.” “I am going to the peak for one last look,” says Sylvia. “After that I suppose I must yield to the infirmities of nature, and sleep like a log while all this beauty is holding the world under a spell of enchantment.”