“Don’t be vexed, Sylvia!” he says. “Eric is a sort of mis—what do you call it?— woman-hater, you know. _I_ should not have found you in the way at all; but it would have been a pity to disturb you so early in the morning. Why, we started at daylight, and you know you are not partial to rising with the lark—unless it is for a horseback flirtation.” Sylvia’s eyes are fastened on the pages of “The Wooing O’t.” She takes no notice of the apologies, or of the last assertion, and Charley has an excellent opportunity to observe the length and color of her lashes, as they droop steadily downward. He laughs again. “How shall we pacify you?” he says. “Shall we take you to Rich Mountain again? By-the-by, did you leave anything on the top of Castle Rock yesterday evening?” “I lost a piece of blue ribbon from my hair,” she answers, glancing up now—and then she sees the identical knot of ribbon pinned on the front of his coat. “So you have found it!” she says, holding out her hand. But he draws back. “Treasure-trove!” he says. “I was passing the rock with Lanier, and we both observed it lying on the side. I suggested that whoever could get it should have it, but he declined to climb, so I risked my neck alone—and here it is. You could not think of asking me to give it up after that!” “It is not of much importance,” she says carelessly, “but I don’t see what you want with it.” “Ah! don’t you? Well, Lanier does. I doubt if there is a more angry or jealous man on the face of the globe just now. This is my order of merit, and—and blue is the color of hope, isn’t it? ‘Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!’” “If you think,” says Sylvia, majestically, “that by climbing—no great feat, I am sure—the Castle Rock for a piece of blue ribbon, and by paying foolish compliments, you can make me forget my just grievance, you are very much mistaken!” And then, with a crushing air, she returns to “The Wooing O’t.” “The woman who would not be flattered when a man climbs a rock for a ribbon which she dropped, simply for the pleasure of possessing it, and of aggravating another man, has—has no poetry in her soul!” says Charley. “What _will_ make you forget your grievance, then? Should you like to go to the falls behind Cedar Mountain this afternoon?” She looks up laughing—finding it impossible to keep her face in order any longer. [Illustration: “‘One does not come to Arcadia to stay in the house and read novels.’”] “You know I should!” she says. “It is doubly mean of you to treat me in this way, because one does not come to Arcadia to stay in the house and read novels.”