“Here is a man whose fault it certainly will not be if you are not,” says Eric, as we draw up before the door, and the ideal mountain host comes down the piazza steps to meet us. The greetings between Eric, Charley, and himself are warm in the extreme— old friends and comrades have they been for many a day—and when he is presented to us, we, too, feel the frank friendliness of his manner. As we ascend to the piazza, Aunt Markham looks round graciously and remarks that it seems to be a very pleasant place. “It is not pleasant—it is delightful!” says Sylvia, whose partialities and prejudices are both conceived with lightning-like rapidity. “This is that ‘lodge in some vast wilderness’ for which we have been sighing so long. Look at the ‘boundless continuity of shade’—and oh, what splendid antlers!” The antlers to which this exclamation refers hang against the wall of the house, together with several hunting-horns of graceful shape, while long-eared, soft-eyed hounds are lying about, and everything is suggestive of woodland sports. Presently Eric comes up enthusiastic. “They killed one deer yesterday afternoon, and brought in another only an hour before we reached here,” he says. “If anybody wants better hunting than that, I don’t know where he can go to find it.” “If they continue on at that rate, I shouldn’t think it would take long to thin out the game,” says Mr. Lanier. “Who are ‘they’?” inquires Sylvia. “Our host does not talk of himself in the plural, does he?” The motive of this question is so transparent that we all laugh. Sylvia is not in the least disconcerted; she makes no secret of the fact that she likes to form new and pleasant acquaintances. “‘They,’” replies Eric, “are a party of gentlemen—one of whom is an old comrade of mine. Yonder he comes now.—Brandon, how are you?” The gentleman thus addressed has just emerged from the house; he starts at sight of Eric, and they shake hands heartily. Inquiries and greetings are exchanged. We catch the words “fine buck”—“shot him at about forty yards”—“first-rate shot”—“made by Mr. Charlton.” “I wonder if he is speaking of Geoffrey Charlton?” says Mrs. Cardigan. “I know _him_. He is a writer—a journalist, or something of that kind.” “Such people are not generally agreeable,” says Sylvia—who, a month ago, was inclined to exalt “culture” above anything else, and esteemed “such people” to be the cream of earth’s population. “They are too much inclined to think that nothing is worth knowing which is not to be found in books.” “I am afraid that if you remain in this country much longer _you_ will think that nothing is worth knowing which is not learned in the woods,” observes Mr. Lanier, with rather a forced smile. “There are worse schools of manhood,” says Charley, taking down one of the horns and winding such a blast that the hounds all start up with an enraptured howl.