There can be no doubt of this fact. Almost on a level with the summit of the Blue Ridge lies the plateau, and though not much higher than Asheville, its atmosphere is very much drier, owing to the absence of streams. The peculiar brilliancy of the air, to which we have by this time become accustomed, is nowhere more marked, and the average temperature is remarkably even. There is an excellent hotel here, which we find filled with South Carolinians. The distinctive Charleston face appears, the distinctive Charleston accent is heard on all sides. “We have got back to civilization,” says Aunt Markham, complacently looking round on the carpets and easy-chairs, which we have not seen since we left Asheville. “If this is civilization, it seems very tame after our life in the woods,” says Sylvia, discontentedly. “Civilization always seems tame to outlaws,” remarks Charley. “No doubt you all feel like resting this afternoon,” says Eric, addressing the company, “but we will spend to-morrow here and you may like to visit some of the places in the neighborhood.” At this suggestion Sylvia expresses disdain. “As if, after all that we have seen, we could care about mere parks and pleasure-grounds!” she says. “I shall be glad to see them,” says Aunt Markham. “I may obtain an idea for the new flower-garden at home.” Consequently we set forth the next morning on a round of sight-seeing. It is not worth while to record our impressions of the different places to which we are conducted. Country-seats with lawns and terraces, artificial lakes and flower-gardens blazing with brilliance, are to be found in many parts of the world besides Flat Rock. Aunt Markham is greatly interested, but the rest of us are unequivocally bored, and find it difficult to repress a sentiment of contempt for the “views” which we are called upon to admire. In truth, many of these are very charming—but they strike us as tame after the wilder scenes from which we come. This is not the fault of the views, however, as we are magnanimous enough to admit. When we think of returning to the hotel, Eric says: “There is one more place where we will go. It is called ‘the old De Choiseul House,’ and was built by a certain Count de Choiseul, who lived in Charleston for some years and had a summer residence here. The place has a very foreign aspect, and was uninhabited when I heard of it last.” We turn into a disused road leading across an old field thickly set with goldenrod and wild-asters. This leads up a gradual slope, and finally through a fallen gate into what has obviously once been a park, but is now an overgrown wilderness.