“And its head-waters abound in trout,” says Charley. “If we stopped to explore everything, we should never have done,” says Aunt Markham, who feels that it is very necessary to restrain the wandering inclinations of the party. “Really now,” says Mr. Lanier, “are you in earnest about the trout? Since I haven’t seen one yet, my skepticism may be excused.” “You haven’t been at any place where you _could_ see one—except on the Black, and nobody had time for trout-fishing there,” says Charley. “The speckled trout are only found in the purest and coldest streams—generally on the north sides of mountains. If you joined those fellows whom we passed going to the Balsam, you would soon be able to catch more than you’d know what to do with.” “I am not sufficiently anxious to catch them to be willing to endure all the discomforts which those fellows are going to encounter,” says Mr. Lanier. “Our mode of traveling is quite adventurous enough, I think.” “Quite,” says Aunt Markham. Nobody else endorses this opinion, but those who utter it are too well convinced of its soundness to need any endorsement. The rest of us merely laugh. One does not feel inclined to argue with crystal water swirling gently by, and boughs interlacing overhead, through the greenness of which one catches glimpses of a sky blue as the heart of a turquoise. “‘Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossoming bough than we,’” says Sylvia. “Who wants to play a game of whist? This is one of those periods in a journey when one does not care in the least about moving on.” Since John and Harrison are engaged in taking their dinner, and the horses are still munching the oats which have been purchased at a neighboring farm-house for them, this proposal is very well received; and the cards are produced. Mrs. Cardigan and Eric play against Sylvia and Mr. Lanier—the table being a convenient rock. Charley and I look on and offer unasked advice to the players. Aunt Markham leans back between the spreading roots of a large oak and takes a refreshing nap against its trunk. There is a ford in the river not far from us, and a countryman who drives his ox-cart into the water, and pauses for the poor patient beasts to drink, looks amused at the scene before him. We linger so long that Eric shakes his head when we finally start again. “I don’t know where we shall spend the night,” he says. “This delay has altogether upset my calculations.” [Illustration: Aunt Markham’s Nap.] “Serves you right for making such things!” says Charley. “It is a mistake in a journey like ours. We should loiter as we like during the day, and trust to luck for the night’s shelter.” “I had rather trust to something more definite,” says Aunt Markham. “Eric, where did you expect to spend the night?” “I expected to spend it at Buck Forest,” answers Eric, “but we can’t possibly reach there now.”