The place not being auspicious for a sentimental conversation, Sylvia takes no notice of this remark. “But if anybody wanted to make me perfectly happy,” she proceeds, “he would get me a small _live_ fawn.” Fortunately for Charley, before he can pledge himself to anything rash, Aunt Markham makes the move for leaving table, and we follow. The piazza at Buck Forest, even more than at most places of the kind, is reception-room, parlor, card-room, and gathering-place in chief; so we adjourn thither and discuss our plans for the afternoon. “Suppose we devote it to rest?” I venture to suggest; but the idea is contemptuously scouted. “Who needs rest?” says Sylvia. “_I_ don’t. If anybody will take me anywhere, I’ll go gladly.” “Should you like to join a deer-hunt?” asks Eric. “Brandon thinks that if we take the dogs through the Rich Mountain drive, we may perhaps start a deer. At all events, it is worth trying; and the view from the mountain is worth seeing. I know of no view so fine to be obtained with so little trouble.” “Oh Eric, _how_ charming you are!” cries Sylvia, starting up. “Of course I will go.” “And I,” says Mrs. Cardigan, almost as eagerly. I find myself too strongly tempted by this prospect to carry out my own proposal of rest; so it follows that in the course of the next hour we start—a train of merry equestrians, with horns and guns and dogs. “This is what I have dreamed of!” says Sylvia, with ecstasy. “I hope you dreamed of starting a deer,” says Charley. “I hope she didn’t,” says Rupert. “Dreams always go by contraries.” Rich Mountain is three miles distant from Buck Forest, and the ride thither is like enchantment on this September afternoon. The beauty of the day is without flaw, and the green depths of the forest into which we plunge are filled with a streaming glory of amber sunshine. Mr. Brandon and Eric, who lead the cavalcade, do not follow any road nor even a bridle-path. Straight through “the coverts of the deer,” in other words, through the most thickly timbered woods and the densest _chaparrals_ of laurels and ivy, they go, and we straggle after them. There is not very much conversation. In the first place, we are too scattered, for every rider chooses his own way; and, in the second place, the attention of our escorts is altogether concentrated upon the dogs. Will they “jump” a deer? That is the momentous question which fills their minds. The dogs themselves seem anxious enough to do so. They run to and fro with their noses to the ground, and obediently answer any horn or whoop which may be sounded; but no deer is unfortunate enough to be “jumped.” [Illustration: “A train of merry equestrians.”] Meanwhile we are mounting higher and higher in gradual but certain ascent. So rich is the soil beneath our horses’ feet, so luxuriant the growth upon it that we appreciate the fact that the mountain deserves its name, and we are not surprised to hear that it is a favorite cattle-range.