“Are generally the result of prejudice, jealousy, or provincial ignorance,” she goes on, impetuously, with the color mounting to her cheeks. “Prejudice, jealousy, provincial ignorance!” repeats Charley, meditatively. “Under which head does my judgment come, I wonder? Prejudice?—why should I be prejudiced? Jealousy?—of whom should I be jealous? Provincial ignorance?—I am afraid I must plead guilty on that score. I have never been in New Orleans.” “You have been in Paris, however,” I observe, “and therefore ought to be familiar with French manners.” “And Miss Dupont’s are very good,” he says, with the air of one making a deduction. I give the matter up, and walk on with Eric, leaving Sylvia and Charley to fight their battle alone. We hear them disputing behind us. “A person may be enthusiastic and effusive without being affected,” Sylvia declares. “With an impressionable temperament, feelings are so easily aroused that persons of that kind are often unjustly accused of insincerity,” Charley says. Eric and I look at each other and smile. We are accustomed to the sparring and wrangling of these two. We do not go to the French Broad. An avenue which is very creditable to the town has been opened toward it, and along this we walk for some distance, admiring at every step the green landscape around us and the splendid heights far away; but our pedestrian powers are exhausted before we reach the river. Wiser with regard to Asheville distances, and saddened by the necessity of toiling over the cobble-stones which pave the streets, we return to the hotel. As we approach the door, we are astonished to see a stout lady in the act of being assisted from the small phaeton with which we have already made acquaintance, by a slender, graceful gentleman. “There is Mr. Dupont!” says Sylvia, looking at the latter. “There is Aunt Markham!” I exclaim, looking at the former. “Aunt Markham!” repeats Charley. “By Jove, so it is! What do you suppose she has been doing?” “Driving with Mr. Dupont, apparently,” says Eric, whom nothing surprises. We find that this conjecture is correct. When we come up, Aunt Markham receives us benignly. “Mr. Dupont, whom I believe you have met,” she says—we bow, and Mr. Dupont bows—“has been kindly driving me around Asheville a little. It is really a very pretty place—only exceedingly scattered. I should dislike to be obliged to walk very much here. You must all be dreadfully tired.” “I am more vexed than tired,” says Sylvia, “for we did not reach the French Broad after all—it is too far away.” “If you would like to see that river, will you not allow me the pleasure of driving you to it?” says Mr. Dupont, eagerly. “I shall be greatly honored.” [Illustration: Mr. Dupont proposes—a Drive.] Sylvia hesitates. “But your horse must be tired,” she says, “and you—are not you tired, also, of playing cavalier of dames?”