“Such a gift loses its value and much of its charm when it is turned to a purpose of that kind,” I remark. We drive on, and some time elapses before anything more is seen of the riders. Then Sylvia, attended by Mr. Lanier, comes up at a canter, and the first thing we perceive is a brace of pheasants hanging over the horn of her saddle. “Did you see those delightful young men?” she asks. “Charley’s friend Grimes— you’ve heard him talk of Grimes, haven’t you?—is one of them. I was very glad, for I wanted to question them all about where they were going. They have been to the Roan, and now they are going on a hunting-trip to the Balsam. Oh, I wish I could go! Charley says he thinks _he_ will.” “Did Grimes give you those?” asks Eric, pointing to the birds. “No, another one—very handsome, with a dark mustache—gave them to me. I did not want to take them, but he insisted—and won’t they be delicious?” “Very,” answers Eric. “Now if we can only meet another party with a slaughtered deer, and you will be good enough to cajole that out of them, we shall fare royally.” “Cajole!” repeats Sylvia, indignantly. “Didn’t they _press_ me to take these?” she asks, turning to Mr. Lanier. “Certainly they did,” assents that gentleman, promptly. Presently Charley appears within conversational distance, and Eric accosts him. “What is this I hear?” he inquires. “Are you thinking of turning deserter?” “I was strongly tempted,” the other answers, “but on the whole I have decided to stand by you all. No doubt we’ll get some good hunting at Buck Forest.” We are at this time traveling once more along the banks of the French Broad, though we can scarcely fancy that this tranquil river, with its glassy current and smiling valley, is one with the impetuous stream which a little later tears its headlong way through the heart of the mountains. No river could be more placid and well-behaved than it is here. We do not follow its course very long, but bear away across a comparatively level though very elevated country. Evidences of thrift and prosperity abound. One farm succeeds another in rapid succession, while the houses, as a rule, are large and comfortable. We pass the lovely valleys of the Mills and Davidson Rivers, with breadths of fertile lowlands in the foreground and purple-crested hills beyond, miles of rustling corn and broad meadows sowed in grass. All the rugged features of mountain landscape have disappeared; a pastoral softness fills the outlines of every picture, while a freshness of which words can convey but a faint idea rests over the land, and the atmosphere seems with every mile to grow purer and more stimulating. We take our dinner by the road-side, on the shady banks of the Davidson. This river is short in its course, being a tributary of the French Broad, but no stream carries a more limpid current through fairer scenes. “One might spend a week in exploring it,” says Eric. “The scenery is romantic in the extreme.”