“I wonder where they can have been all this time?” she says, and turns back to our hostess to inquire. When we separate for the night, Eric asks if we wish to be waked for the sunrise the next morning, and receives an uncompromising negative in reply. We do not gain very much by our refusal, however, since a party of more enterprising tourists are determined not to miss the phenomenon; and they walk about the passages at daylight, knock loudly on each other’s doors, and call upon Jane, and Eliza, and Caroline, to wake, in tones which rouse not only Jane, Eliza, and Caroline, but also every one else in the house. At breakfast Aunt Markham asks what are our plans for the day. “Our plans for the day,” replies Sylvia, “may be briefly defined. We intend to go to the Head, and—sit there. That view is like the ocean in two respects: first, because of its immensity; secondly, because I feel sure one can never weary of it.” “You are right,” says a lady across the table. “I have been here six weeks, and I do not feel any more as if I had exhausted it than I did on the first day I came.” After breakfast we carry out this programme: we go to the Head, and sit there. It is the softest and fairest of half-summer, half-autumn days, with fleecy clouds floating in battalions across the sky, and flinging their shadows over the far-stretching prospect. The winds which come to us are laden with freshness, and the varying lights and shades upon the scene make a picture of which it is impossible to weary. We spend the morning in the idlest fashion, climbing over the rocks, seeking shelter from the sun in the cool shade of that cave-like cleft which forms Cæsar’s mouth, sketching a little, talking a great deal. “I realize now,” says Sylvia, “how an eagle feels when— ‘Clasping the crag with hookèd hands, Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands.’” “I should not be surprised if some one of this party would add to the resemblance by falling like a thunderbolt,” says Mr. Lanier, uneasily. “You must all have very steady heads to climb so recklessly over these rocks. I confess it makes me exceedingly giddy.” “Then I should strongly advise you to choose the safe obscurity of the background,” says Charley. “This is not a height to be tampered with.—Hallo, Rupert! what are you about?” “Only thinking of climbing this tree.” The tree in question grows on one of the escarpments of the precipice, and looks as if it would be a dizzy perch for an owl. Eric walks up to the young gentleman who regards it with climbing intentions, collars, shakes, and leads him away. “Don’t let me hear of your doing so foolhardy a thing!” he says. “I hoped you had more sense.” “What an admirable place this would have been for some Indian lovers to put an end to their existence!” says Mrs. Cardigan. “I wonder they never thought of leaping from it!” “What a blessing that they did not!” says Sylvia.