So we go out from under the shadow of the rock, and look round on the radiant, dripping world, and up at the blue sky from which the clouds have parted and fled. On the opposite side of the stream Cedar Mountain rises, covered with a wealth of tangled verdure; in front of us the Bridal Veil sweeps down and pours in a sheet of white foam and spray to the solid rock on which we stand. “If you like,” says Charley, “you can go behind the fall. It will be rather wetter than usual after such a heavy rain; but it is the regulation thing to do.” “Will anybody tell me,” says Mrs. Cardigan, “what was the good of keeping dry under the rock, if we are going behind the fall now to get wet?” “You won’t get wet—only a little damp,” says Mr. Brandon. “I don’t think that I care to get a ‘little damp,’” she answers. “Besides, I can see the fall very well from here.” “But you can’t see the view from the other side,” says Charley. Then he turns to Sylvia. “Will _you_ go?” he asks. “That is a question which may be defined as unnecessary,” she answers, drawing her water-proof over her shoulders. “Lead on!” So he leads and she follows, while Mr. Brandon, Rupert, and I, come next. It is a trying operation, this passing behind the falls. The space for passage is very narrow, the wet stones are exceedingly slippery, the rock above shelves in a manner which makes it necessary to bend nearly double, the tumult of the falling water is almost deafening, and the spray fairly blinding. We draw a breath of relief when we emerge on the other side. It is beautiful enough over here, however, to repay us for the inconvenience of the passage. The river does not altogether cover its bed, and we walk along the inclined rock, with the current rushing swiftly by our side and the mountain rising sheer above, covered with rhododendron, and interspersed with tapering juniper-trees and stately spruce-pines. The stream shoots rapidly down until it drops suddenly into the loveliest pool that ever charmed the eye of a painter. The pellucid water might serve as a bath for Diana; rocks draped with vines, and flowers, and shrubs, inclose it; graceful trees lean over the crystal depths. It is a spot fit for nymphs—or lovers. Perhaps Charley thinks so, for he insists upon taking Sylvia to it, along a very slippery and perilous way. She does not refuse his assistance, as she has often refused Mr. Lanier’s under similar circumstances. Clinging together, and laughing gayly as a pair of children, they clamber down to the side of the pool, and then she clasps her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!” I hear her say. “Charley, I should like to stay here!” “I am at your service,” says Charley. “We’ll tell the others to go back and leave us. I shall be glad of the opportunity to utter a seasonable word or two.” “In that case I don’t think I care to stay,” she answers. “A seasonable word is one of the most unseasonable things in the world.”