“One can go behind it with a pretty good certainty of being well wetted,” Charley answers. “I’ll take you up there if you say so.” “I believe I would rather have a more careful guide,” she says, glancing at Mr. Lanier. But that gentleman pays no heed to the mute appeal. He is not fond of unnecessary climbing, and has already remarked that he thinks a waterfall can be best seen from the foot of it. “One appreciates its height then,” he says, “and really, if there was a greater volume of water here, this would be one of the finest cataracts in the country.” “I do not think that anything could make it more beautiful,” says Sylvia, with her head thrown back, and her gaze fastened on the far depths, where, over battlemented rocks, and amid a wealth of verdure, the flashing water leaps, sending its spray and voice heavenward. And in this opinion we agree. Nothing could add to the grandeur of this gorge, into which the slanting sunbeams scarcely pierce, and where, amid the misty gloom, the voice of the stream unceasingly sounds, telling to the silent earth some secret whispered first on that ancient day when time itself had birth. We linger for hours, and at last tear ourselves reluctantly away—pausing for one last glance after another at the plunging water, the abounding foliage, and picturesque rocks, which form a scene so beautiful that the most insensible sight-seer could never forget it. CHAPTER XVII. “And there are haunts in that green land, oh! who may dream or tell Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell, By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves, And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves?” There is an enchanted flavor about the days that follow. They are the very cream of all our summer idling. We are “on the hills, like gods together, careless of mankind,” and this exaltation has a charm difficult to define. The clouds which discharge themselves upon the valleys below, while we sit serene and secure on the mountain’s crest, are types of many other things. Down on that heavenly-looking plain all the vexations and troubles of existence are rife, while we are uplifted above them, and hardly disturb ourselves to wonder how the world is pursuing its course. We even grow indifferent to the mails—sure sign of content!—and scarcely glance into a newspaper. “There is no telling when we shall be more than four thousand feet above the sea again,” says Sylvia, “so let us make the most of it.”