“It does not matter,” says Sylvia, cheerfully. “There are plenty of houses along the road where we can stop and improve our knowledge of the manners and customs of Arcadia.” “That might be an agreeable prospect,” says Mrs. Cardigan, “if it was not so entirely an Arcadian custom to fry a chicken in a pound of lard, and to provide one with a feather-bed to sleep on.” The serene brightness of afternoon is spread over the land, as we travel on at a rapid pace—for the roads are smooth turnpikes along which the horses trot gayly. Far and wide the varied prospect extends, bathed in golden sunlight, flecked by deep shadows. It is nearly sunset when we cross the French Broad once more—a much narrower stream now, flowing swiftly under the bridge over which we pass. Then we have our first glimpse of the magic beauty which will some day make Transylvania famous! The valley of the river lies before us like a garden—a level expanse of cultivated greenness, curving away to the right—where, framing its broad fields and gently swelling hills, there stretches along the entire western horizon a range of the most beautiful mountains which we have seen—the most beautiful, I think, which can be seen anywhere. Nothing can surpass the grace of their undulating outlines, the marvelous purity of their tints. They stand, like the very heights of heaven, against the evening sky—softly and ineffably fair—with the pastoral landscape spread at their feet. We cross the lovely valley with this view before our eyes. From the great hills long shadows stretch; all manner of sweet, fresh odors are on the dewy air; no sapphire is half so blue as the peaks behind which the sun is setting with such majesty that a wonderful glow lights up the entire sky; in the east, over the dark, wooded hills that bound the prospect, some fleecy clouds are floating, which catch the splendor and turn to tenderest rose upon the deep-blue ether. “This _is_ Arcadia!” says Sylvia. “We have reached it at last! By many ways, through many scenes have we come—but never before have we found such a scene as this!” “It is the fairest valley in the mountains!” says Eric, regarding it with pride and admiration. Even Aunt Markham is so much absorbed that she has forgotten to ask where we are to spend the night, but the deepening shades of twilight recall this question to her mind. She looks round apprehensively. “I hope you don’t mean to travel after night, Eric,” she says. “In the mountains it is _very_ dangerous, and the moon does not rise until late.” “I shall not travel after night if I can help it,” answers Eric, touching up the horses. “I think I know a place about two miles from here where we can stop. I don’t promise you excellent accommodation, however.” “Oh, never mind about that,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “We have learned not to be fastidious.” “But we should like, if possible, to be comfortable,” says Aunt Markham, with an expression of anxiety.