“What a thing it is to be young!” says Mrs. Cardigan, in a tone of half-unconscious envy. “With such a skin as _that_ one can afford to face a sunrise, but I know that I am looking frightfully sallow, so I shall return to the cave to practise a few toilet arts. Good-morning!” She draws her hood farther over her face—“like a witch in a play,” she says, laughing—declines any escort, and flits away. No one else moves. We are lost in admiration of the marvelous beauty which grows greater rather than less now that the sun has risen. The sea itself conveys no stronger impression of immensity than the boundless ocean of vapor which we overlook. “It has been the dream of my life to be above the clouds,” cries Sylvia, “and now _I am!_” “You certainly are,” says Eric. “No ray of the sunlight which bathes us, pierces through this canopy.” “One feels as if one might launch a boat on it,” says Charley. “Yonder is an island or two,” says Mr. Lanier, pointing eastward. Several islands appear on the verge of the horizon—the most elevated points of the Blue Ridge piercing the clouds. “Yonder is the crest of the Grandfather—which was formerly thought to be the highest Appalachian mountain,” says Eric. “I suppose that was in the days when the Black was called the Negro Mountain,” says Charley. “By Jove, what a sight! We have the Atlantic on one side and the Pacific on the other.” “Or rather we have a picture of the Deluge when the waters began to abate from the face of the earth,” says Sylvia. “The mist is moving—see!—Eric, will it lift after a while?” “Very likely it _may_ lift—and envelop us,” answers Eric. “I think you are mistaken,” remarks Mr. Lanier. “The clouds are passing away. Look in this direction.” Our eyes follow the direction of his hand, and we see that the clouds are undoubtedly passing away from that portion of the view which lies between us and Tennessee. The great hills of Mitchell and Yancey stand fully revealed in the clear light and long shadows of early morning—though the valleys are still transformed to beautiful, tremulous lakes of mist. In her enthusiasm Sylvia calls upon Charley to assist her to the top of the chimney again. “I must see all that can be seen,” she says. “I don’t know that I shall ever witness another sunrise from the summit of the Black.” “It has been very fine, indeed,” says Mr. Lanier, “but one is enough, I think.” Then this gentleman, like Mrs. Cardigan, retires for some finishing touches to his toilet—a matter which has plainly weighed on his mind for some time. “Poor Lanier!” says Charley. “He could not enjoy the view from Mont Blanc if his collar was rumpled, his cravat awry, or his hair out of accurate wave.”