“Because it is too wild a region,” answers Eric. “We are not prepared for anything so remote from civilization.” “For Heaven’s sake,” says Aunt Markham, with energy, “don’t let us go into any wilder region than we have been in already! It is very well for young people to profess to enjoy hardships, but at my age one prefers the comforts of life—at least to the extent of a bed to sleep on and a roof over one’s head.” “My dear aunt,” says Sylvia, “that idea springs entirely from a misconception. If you would only try once the delight of sleeping in the open air on balsam boughs, you would never rest until you had tried it again.” “Very likely, indeed!” says Aunt Markham, with profound skepticism. “I hope Eric will believe that I have no desire to try such a thing once.” “I believe it thoroughly,” says Eric, “and will take care that you are not forced to do so.—Never mind, Sylvia; next summer we will start out on horseback, take a tent, and thoroughly explore the Balsam and the Nantahala Mountains.” “Thanks,” says Sylvia, “but next summer is so very far away! I have never outgrown the childish feeling of wanting a pleasure at once if I am to have it at all. How do I know what may happen before next summer?” “Life is very uncertain,” says Mrs. Cardigan, laughing. “When summer comes, you may be married and gone to Switzerland for your wedding-tour.” Instead of blushing, Sylvia looks haughty. “I was not alluding to anything of that kind,” she says. Then she turns to Charley—poor Charley, who is not likely to be able to afford a wedding-tour to Switzerland.—“You have been to the Balsam Mountains,” she says. “Tell me all about them. Is the country _very_ wild?” “It is exceedingly wild,” he replies. “Eric is right; we are not fitted out for going there this summer. In a tour of that description one must prepare for _roughing_ of every description.” Failing the Balsam Mountains—against which a majority of the party strongly vote—it is decided that we turn our faces toward Transylvania. As I predicted, Mrs. Cardigan makes one of our party. “As far as Cæsar’s Head,” she says. “There I expect to meet some friends.” “I don’t believe that she expects to meet anybody at all,” says Aunt Markham, confidentially. “I believe that she has simply determined to make Eric fall in love with her, and—O Alice, do you think he will?” I laugh. “It is impossible to say,” I answer, “but I don’t think he will. If Eric ever marries— which is doubtful—he will not be likely to choose a beguiling widow for his wife.” Notwithstanding this opinion, I am forced to admit that the beguiling widow in question makes herself so agreeable that even Eric is partial to her society, and when we start she is on the front seat of the phaeton by his side.