After leaving this point, we travel for two or three miles at a very leisurely rate— spending more time out of the carriages than in them, since the beautiful road tempts one to constant lingering. The flashing water is before our eyes, its musical tumult in our ears; the rocks, the foliage-clad hills, the beauty of the golden day, all combine to fill us with what Sylvia calls “the Arcadian spirit,” which may perhaps be defined as an inclination to loiter whenever loitering is practicable. We have entered, too, a fairy-land of flowers, and our hands are full of them as we stroll along. On the hillsides, in the deep, ferny glens, by the plashing streams, and among the mossy stones, grow all manner of blossoms in profusion—large, purple passion-flowers, royal tiger-lilies of different shades, the lovely orchis, which is locally known as “the highland plume,” in tints ranging from orange to pale salmon and white, delicate wild-azalias, starry flowers which no one is botanist enough to be able to name, and trailing sprays of graceful creepers. Wild-grasses abound, and we deck our hats with them. “Here is the fly-trap,” says Charley, coming up with a peculiar-looking plant—a green cup, with a top which closes over any unlucky insect that may chance to venture within. At this rate of progress, it is not remarkable that the day is nearly half gone by the time we reach Buck Forest—which proves to be a large two-story building, with a long piazza in front, shade trees drooping all around, a mountain of brown rock near by, on which verdure only appears in tufts, and depths of forest greenery in every direction. “What an appropriately-named place!” says Sylvia. “And this is where you and Charley are so fond of coming, Eric? Pray, what do you do after you get here?” “Do?” repeats Eric. “Why, hunt, ride, fish, make excursions of all kinds. Buck Forest is the last place in the world where one can possibly feel the want of something to do. It has an owner who is an ideal mountain host, and for company one is generally sure of finding the best of good fellows.” “Like those good fellows who sang ‘Good-by, Sweetheart’ last night?” she asks, laughing. “If so, I shall be delighted to meet them.” “It is mostly a resort for hunters and sportsmen,” says Charley. “I don’t think ladies, as a rule, like it much—at least, they like it after a fashion, no one could help doing _that_; but they find it dull. Poor souls! one can’t blame them. There are no mineral waters to drink, no grounds to lounge over, no bowling-alley to flirt in, no ballroom—” “That will do, Mr. Kenyon!” cries Mrs. Cardigan. “Stop before you become hopelessly commonplace, for you know you were going to say ‘no ballroom in which to display fine toilets.’ Now, I insist that one can enjoy a ball without fine toilets—as we proved last night—and I am sure we shall all be charmed with Buck Forest.”