Having devoted the morning to the Head, we are conducted by our host in the afternoon to a place a mile or two distant, called Stony Point, from which we have an admirable view of the whole face of the mountain as it sweeps round in a horseshoe curve, enclosing in its arms that dark forest known as the Dismal. We realize its grandeur more strikingly from this point than even from the summit, marking distinctly its great face of rock extending for miles, and seeing that on its cliff of lookout a human figure dwindles to a hardly discernible pigmy. Immediately in front of us, as we sit enthroned on the broken masses of stone from which the point takes its name, lies the wild Saluda Gorge and the bold face of Table Rock, with a plumage of dense forest spread over all the intervening space, and ravishing tints of softest blues and purples ranging in hue from faintest mauve to richest royal, on the splendid mountain-chain. We are on the left of the Head, and, when we turn our gaze southward, the gleaming world of the low-country lies below us, the westering sun shining on the roofs and spires of Greenville, which is the most considerable town that we overlook. [Illustration: “‘Don’t let me hear of our doing so foolhardy a thing!’”] The next day Eric announces that we must go to Saluda Falls. “It is our most important expedition,” he says. “After that we can take our time in exploring the different points of interest around the mountains.” Nobody demurs, so the wagon and the saddle-horses are ordered. “It is useless to think of taking the phaeton over _that_ road,” Eric says, in a tone which is calculated to give one a very poor opinion of the road indeed. Sylvia, Charley, and Mr. Lanier are, as usual, on horseback. Mrs. Cardigan sits by Eric on the seat of the wagon, while chairs are placed behind, in country fashion, for Rupert and myself. Now, if anyone wishes to test the extreme of discomfort, let him attempt to sit on a chair in an open vehicle of such shallow depth that it amounts to no depth at all, and be conveyed over the steepest and roughest of mountain roads. We endure it for a little while, then, as a particularly steep descent and sharp curve appears before us, Rupert makes a flying leap and alights on the ground. “That is preferable to being pitched out, as I should have been,” he says. “You had better follow my example, Alice.” I decide before long that I will do so, for the road is simply terrible. “It was only made last year,” Eric says, by way of apology; and Mrs. Cardigan raises her eyebrows as she asks, “Do you call it made now?” [Illustration: The New Road.]