“We’ve had glorious hunting!” the latter declares at once, while the former brings a pair of antlers which he presents to Sylvia. “You spoke as if you might like them,” he says, “so I thought I would offer them to you. I am sorry that I have not been able to get the fawn for which you expressed a desire.” “_I_ am not sorry,” she answers with a laugh. “It would have been very troublesome to carry; but thank you for the antlers. I am glad to have them, and I shall keep them in memory of our pleasant expedition.” While she speaks, I see that Charley is surveying the party with an expression of surprise. After a minute he falls back, and I hear him say to Eric: “What the deuce has become of Lanier?” “He went down the country a day or two ago with Mrs. Cardigan,” Eric answers. “I think he has had enough of mountains to last the rest of his life.” Charley laughs—half amused, half scornful. “What did such a muff ever come to them for?” he asks. This is all the sympathy which the muff in question obtains from the person whom he esteems his fortunate rival. Indeed, Aunt Markham is the only member of the party who mourns his departure. Sylvia is evidently relieved, and something of a tacit reconciliation takes place between Charley and herself. So, in a state of amicable good-fellowship, we bid our friends at Buck Forest farewell, and set our horses’ heads toward Hickory-Nut Gap. The road leads us through the pass where the Little River pours in foaming rapids down to the house where we spent the night on our way to Buck Forest. Then we bear away to the right, and, leaving the fertile valleys and wooded hills of Transylvania behind, ascend to the high plateau of Henderson. The highways here are as admirable as any traveler could desire—white and firm, and flecked with shade. The horses appreciate them after the hard service which they have recently seen, and carry us along at so good a rate of speed that the afternoon is not half gone when we find ourselves in the midst of the settlement of Flat Rock. Country-seats appear on all sides; avenues of white pines, beautiful park-like grounds, surround them; sometimes the house is invisible, and we see only the broad gates and the sweeping carriage-drive that leads to it. There are signs everywhere of the rock formation which gives a name to the region. On the hillsides are great sheets of brown-stone, and everything indicates that the same stone forms the foundation of the country. “I suppose you are aware that this is a provincial Charleston,” says Eric. “Long ago, a number of the wealthy planters of the South Carolina coast built summer residences here, and made a society within themselves. A spirit of change has passed over the place since the war, I understand, and a few outsiders have come in and bought some of the residences; but, on the whole, it is still, socially as well as picturesquely, attractive.” “And the climate is perfect,” says Aunt Markham.