There can be no doubt that we _do_ make the most of it. The air of Cæsar’s Head stimulates to exertions which would be impossible in a less bracing atmosphere, and we soon become accomplished pedestrians, taking our way, alpenstocks in hand, to all places of interest and note around the mountain. These places are almost inexhaustible. People who come and see only the view from the Head have no idea that they leave unseen behind them tenfold more than that. It is only a part—and a small part—of the abounding loveliness which lies within reach of all who do not fear a little exertion. Being in the midst of the Blue Ridge—which makes here its sweeping curve between the Carolinas—one can wander in no direction without finding scenes of the grandest beauty: cliffs and palisades of rock, great sweeps of wooded mountains at hand, with blue ranges afar, fairy-like glens where the cool plash of water is never still, and the limitless expanse of the azure low-country. But, however far we may have wandered, however steep the way may have been, we never fail to gather on the Head when evening comes, to watch the sun sink behind the western hills. What magical coloring we see on land and sky at these times, what wonderful cloud-effects, what visions of a glory that seems almost celestial, only a poet could tell, and the poet who shall sing to the world of these fair scenes has not yet arisen. On an evening of this description we are scattered over the rocks, and the sun is sinking among clouds that remind one of the cohorts of the Assyrian king, so gorgeously are they “gleaming with purple and gold,” when Mrs. Cardigan directs our attention to a silver crescent, shining faintly out of the sky above. “There is the new moon,” she says. “It is good luck to see it for the first time in a clear sky. I hope the good luck is for my journey to-morrow.” “Are you going to-morrow?” Sylvia asks. “What a pity! Why should you end anything so pleasant as these golden days?” “Because my friends are going,” the lady answers, “and I don’t know that there is any reason why I should remain behind. This life is delightful, and I dislike exceedingly to leave you all, with whom I have spent so charming a time, but there comes an hour when all pleasant associations must end. I have come so far with you that I wish I could induce you to come with _me_ now.—Mr. Markham, is there no chance of such a thing? Let me see how many inducements I can offer! First, the North Georgia scenery—my friends talk of stopping for a glimpse of Tallulah and Toccoa.” “I fear that we must defer seeing Tallulah and Toccoa until we take our trip next summer to the Balsam,” Eric answers. “It is necessary for us to turn _our_ faces homeward. In a day or two we shall start for Hickory-Nut Gap.” “These are the last days of September,” says Mr. Lanier. “The summer is very nearly ended—in fact, may be said to _be_ ended.”