“The horse has done nothing to speak of—nothing to tire him,” says the young creole, gallantly; “and, as for me, life offers me no greater happiness than to be a cavalier of dames. If mademoiselle will only be gracious enough to trust herself with me—” Mademoiselle is gracious. She smiles; nobody knows better than Sylvia herself that she has a very charming smile. “You are very kind,” she says, “and the phaeton looks very inviting. Yes, I will go. The French Broad is only a mile distant, I believe.” As he assists her into the little carriage, Mr. Dupont says something in French— like all creoles, he falls into this language whenever he wants to be very complimentary or impressive—the substance of which is that he should be glad if it were twenty miles distant. Then they drive away, leaving us standing on the sidewalk. “Mr. Dupont is a most agreeable person,” says Aunt Markham, taking Eric’s arm as she slowly mounts the steps of the hotel-piazza. “It is a very good test of a young man’s breeding and disposition when he is attentive to an elderly woman. He pressed me to drive with him as if I had been seventeen.” Charley puts his hands in the pockets of his coat, and I see that it would relieve his mind to whistle. He refrains, however, and is repaid for this act of self-denial. As we enter the hotel, a light, silvery voice is heard in the parlor, singing a gay French song. “That is Miss Dupont, I suppose,” I say to Charley. He nods, and, turning, enters the room. The song breaks off abruptly. There is a trill of laughter; then I hear, “So my brother has carried Sylvia off! Are you inconsolable, Mr. Kenyon?” “Not if you will let me hear the rest of that song,” says Charley the hypocrite. An hour, two hours pass, without any sign of the return of Sylvia and Mr. Dupont. Aunt Markham grows uneasy, and asks if I do not think that the horse may have run away and killed them, or else that they may have fallen into the river and been drowned. I quiet her fears by assuring her that there is no great probability that either of these events has occurred. I entertain a strong suspicion of what _has_ occurred, but I say nothing about it, having long since realized that while men (and women) are what they are, flirtation will be very likely to exist. The dinner-bell rings presently, and, notwithstanding her uneasiness, Aunt Markham decides not to wait for the absent culprit. “This air gives one a really remarkable appetite,” she says. We go down-stairs, therefore, but, as we cross the passage, the tall horse and small phaeton draw up before the door, and Sylvia’s pretty, flushed face looks at us. “Don’t scold, auntie!” she cries, as she enters the hall, bearing a large stone jug in both her hands. “I have been on _such_ an expedition in your behalf! Can you imagine what I have here? You must taste it at once.—Mr. Dupont, please make somebody bring a glass!” [Illustration: The Prize from the Springs.]