The carriages are relieved of their multifarious luggage, the trunks are taken into the house, we make a brief survey of the apartments assigned to us, and then gather on the piazza in the cool, clear dusk, while our hostess betakes herself to the kitchen, whence an ominous fizzling sound soon proceeds. “Oh, that frying-pan!” says Sylvia, with a groan. “I wish I could make a bonfire of every one in existence!” “You don’t know what cruel desolation you would inflict on a large proportion of your fellow-creatures,” says Charley. “I should enjoy inflicting it,” she says, vindictively. “Yonder are two men coming in! I wonder if they are belated travelers? Why, Charley, it’s—it’s Grimes and another one!” At this lucid statement we all turn. “Grimes” and the “other one” have entered the gate and are now approaching the piazza. “If you come for lodging, you are too late,” Charley says, with a laugh. “We have engaged all the apartments of this hotel.” “By Jove, it’s Kenyon,” says one of the young men. Then they doff their hats to the party. “We thought you were ever so far ahead of us,” the speaker goes on. “How do you come to be here?” “We idled so long at mid-day that we fell short of our place of destination,” Eric answers. “I am sorry for the fact if you have come for lodging.” “For lodging!” they repeat. “We have come for some milk. Our tent is pitched a little distance from here.” “I’ll pilot you to the kitchen,” says Charley. “We haven’t engaged all the milk.” They return presently, laughing and talking—their tin bucket full of the desired fluid—linger to exchange a few remarks, give us a cordial invitation to visit their camp, and then take their departure. “What delightful times they must have!” says Sylvia, watching them enviously; “_what_ a thing it is to be a man!” “Sometimes it is very much of a thing to be a woman,” observes Mr. Lanier. When supper is over, Sylvia, Charley, and Rupert announce their intention of going to the camp, and Mrs. Cardigan, Mr. Lanier, Eric, and I decide to accompany them. The walk is very pleasant. Starlight is beautiful in all places—a vague, shadowy light which gives infinite play to the imagination—but it is specially beautiful and marvelously bright in this land of the sky. We stroll along the road, hearing the soft rush of water in the semi-darkness, conscious of many different floating odors, and with a dim outline of spreading valley and dark hills around. Above, the magnificent arch of heaven is ablaze with myriads of stars—jewel-like worlds throbbing in their strange, silent glory through all the wide realm of space. Before we reach our destination, we catch the ruddy gleam of a fire and hear a sound of familiar music. “By George, they’ve got a fiddle!” cries Rupert, enthusiastically.