It is the height of the season for tourists, and we hear—in fact, we heard before we crossed the mountains—that every house of entertainment in Asheville is crowded. The ‘Eagle’ demurred about receiving us, but Eric’s influence carried our point. This morning we see that the hotel is full to overflowing. As we eat our breakfast leisurely, we criticize the parties that come and go, and are edified by a great deal of fashion. After a while Charley appears, and drops into a seat by Sylvia. “I see no signs of the linen blouse, the alpenstock, or the thick boots,” he says, regarding her pretty toilet with evident appreciation. “Are we going to resign the _rôle_ of explorers, and subside into ordinary summer idlers?” “I have not the faintest idea what you mean to do,” she replies, “but, judging by the manner in which you begin the campaign, I should think you were likely to be more of a summer idler than any thing else. As for the rest of us, we have arranged our plan of action for the day. After breakfast we are going to devote ourselves to seeing Asheville and the French Broad. This afternoon we shall walk to—to—what is the name of the place, Eric?” “Beaucatcher,” answers Eric. “And to-night let us go to Elk Mountain,” says Charley, meekly. “It is only about seven miles distant—a pleasant point for a moonlight stroll.” “No, to-night we are going to—what is the name of _that_ place, Eric?” “Battery Porter,” says Eric. “Yes, and then to-morrow we are going to MacSomebody’s Hill—Eric says it commands the finest view east of the Mississippi—and the day after to Elk Mountain, and the day after that—” But the expression of Charley’s face is so full of genuine consternation that I interpose. “Pray spare us, Sylvia. We are not making the tour of Europe after the manner of Brown, Jones, and Robinson—the greatest amount of sight-seeing to be accomplished in the smallest deal of time. We are summer idlers, and we do not mean to exhaust ourselves by making a business of pleasure. Don’t let us be tied down to a programme. Let us see all these beautiful places in the manner and at the time that seems to us best.” “Hear! hear!” says Charley, gratefully—but Sylvia regards me with disapprobation. “We are not likely to see very much if the manner and the time are left to some of the party,” she remarks. “May I be allowed to suggest riding or driving, instead of walking?” says Charley. “Asheville is a town of magnificent distances—every place is a mile at least from every other place—and the French Broad, which you speak of seeing, is a mile from them all.” “What are miles in this climate?” asks Sylvia, loftily.