He darts forward eagerly. We turn a sharp bend of the path, and the camp is before us. What is more picturesque than such a scene? The bright glow of the fire extends over a radius of several yards, lighting up fantastically the tangled depths of foliage on a neighboring hillside and the vine-draped face of a great rock. The tent is pitched near—behind which an unseen stream murmurs over its stones. The wagon stands at some distance. Over the foreground the party are scattered in various attitudes, smoking like so many volcanoes. On a large stone immediately in front of the fire sits the fiddler—a negro, whose foot keeps time, and whose body sways with the music. “I didn’t know that you carried a musician along with you, Grimes,” says Charley, when we have been welcomed and introduced to the circle. “Oh, that fellow does double duty,” answers Grimes. “He drives the wagon all day and plays the fiddle all night—at least as much of the night as we’ll allow him to play. He doesn’t make bad music, either, as fiddlers go.” [Illustration: The Fiddler.] “He makes uncommonly good music,” says Sylvia, who evidently finds difficulty in keeping her feet still. “What excellent time!” she goes on, addressing Mrs. Cardigan. “Wouldn’t you like to dance?” Before that lady can answer, two or three of the young men speak eagerly. “Why shouldn’t you dance if you would like it?” they inquire. “It’s what _we_ have been pining for to such an extent that we have several times danced with each other.” “But where can we dance?” asks Mrs. Cardigan, glancing round. “On the ground, like fairies,” says Eric. “In the house we left a few minutes ago,” says Charley. “There’s quite a large room there. We’ll take the fiddler and go back.” So, accompanied by the fiddler and the majority of the party, we return to the house. One or two of the gentlemen demur slightly on the score of their appearance, but, having been assured by Sylvia that their flannel hunting-shirts are very picturesque and altogether appropriate to the occasion, they consent to enter the saloon, which is magnificently lighted by two tallow candles placed on a mantelpiece so high that a person of moderate stature would require a ladder to mount to it. [Illustration: The Reel.] This is a trifle, however. On waxed floors and under blazing chandeliers I have yet to see a tenth part of the merriment, the absolute enjoyment, which makes this evening delightful. How gayly the laughter rings, how bright the eyes, how light the steps! “Oh, if in after-life we could but gather The very refuse of our youthful hours!” We dance several quadrilles, try a waltz or two, and close with an old-fashioned reel. During this last the mirth grows fairly uproarious, and, as Sylvia leads down the middle with Grimes, she turns her flushed, sparkling face over her shoulder to say to Mrs. Cardigan: “Isn’t this ever so much better than the Springs?”