“But autumn is better than summer,” says Sylvia, “and I want—oh, I desperately want—to spend October in the mountains. It is beautiful everywhere, but it must seem divine here, when— ‘... his winds blow fresh, and his sunsets flame, And the whole earth burns with his crimson fame— The prince of the months—October.’” “There can be no doubt that people, as a rule, leave the mountains much too soon,” says Eric, “but the claims of business take me home, and I shall take the rest of you.” “If they will be taken,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “But I offer a warm welcome and two or three weeks of further idling to all deserters.” In making the offer, she looks directly at Mr. Lanier, and it strikes me as a little odd that this gentleman seems a trifle embarrassed as he pulls his mustache. “Can there be any kind of an understanding between them?” I think—and then I look at Sylvia. The countenance of the latter is altogether inscrutable. She is gazing calmly into space, and, if there is a suspicion of an amused smile dimpling the corners of her mouth, it is the only sign she gives of appreciating the game of the fair widow. Presently the sunset fades, and the different members of the party begin to straggle back toward the hotel. Neither Charley nor Rupert is with us. Two or three days before they went down to Buck Forest for hunting, and have not yet returned. Mrs. Cardigan and Eric leave the Head first. Sylvia lingers to watch the crescent moon brighten from silver to gold as the glowing tints die out of the sky, and of course Mr. Lanier lingers with her. I leave them on the rocks to go down the winding path which leads to the Mouth, remembering that I left my sketch-book there earlier in the day. I stay a few minutes and then climb leisurely back. When I have nearly reached the top, I pause in consternation. What is this?—Words full of significance reach my ears. Believing that they are alone, Mr. Lanier has plunged into his long-deferred declaration, and has plainly met his certain rejection. “I do not wish to press anything which is unwelcome upon you,” I hear him say, in such tones of mingled mortification and pride as rarely come from a man’s lips on any other occasion. “But if you would take time to consider—” “It is useless,” Sylvia interrupts. “You would have a right to consider me a coquette if I gave you any hope that my answer could ever be different from what it is now. If I have seemed to encourage you, I hope you will pardon me. It is not always easy to know one’s own mind—and I have not known mine until lately.” “And are you quite sure that you know it now?” he asks, anxiously. “I am quite sure,” she answers, decidedly. There is a moment’s silence after this. “Dear me!” I think, “what an uncomfortable situation for me! Shall I go back to the cave and try to skirt round the bowlders and get away without their seeing me?” While I hesitate, in doubt which plan to adopt, Mr. Lanier’s tones again break on the stillness.