Mr. Dupont darts away, and in less than a minute returns with a glass. He holds it while Sylvia uncorks the jug. “Is it mountain-dew?” I ask, skeptically. She laughs; the liquid flows clear as crystal into the glass; Mr. Dupont presents it, with a bow, to Aunt Markham, who receives and tastes it. “Sulphur-water!” she says, as one might say “Champagne!” “Yes, sulphur-water,” says Sylvia, exultantly, “quite as good—I mean as bad—as that in Greenbrier, Virginia, of which you are so fond!” “Not _quite_ so good, my dear,” says Aunt Markham, tasting again, with the air of a connoisseur, “It is not so strong as the Greenbrier sulphur.” “It is strong enough,” says Sylvia. “I tasted it and thought it so abominable that I determined to bring you some at once. So Mr. Dupont went to a house on a hill—” “All houses are on hills in this country,” I say, parenthetically. “Except those that are in coves,” says Sylvia. “He borrowed the jug there, and we are to take it back to-morrow.” “But I thought you made the journey on Aunt Markham’s behalf, and from this it appears that you did not think of her until you were at the spring?” “I will tell you all about it at dinner,” says the young lady, flying up-stairs. At dinner we hear an account of the expedition. “To begin at the beginning,” says Sylvia, “the French Broad is a most beautiful river. We crossed it on a long bridge, and I made Mr. Dupont stop in the middle while I took in the view. On one side the stream—which is so clear that its water is a translucent emerald—winds through a fertile valley, with Smith’s Creek—why don’t they give things better names?—flowing into it, draped over with lovely trees and vines. On the other side there are bold, green hills, rising abruptly from the water’s edge, round the base of which the river makes a sweeping curve as it disappears from sight. It was so charming that I could not bear to come back, and Mr. Dupont, seeing that I was anxious to go farther—” “H’m!” says Charley. “Said that he remembered having been here when a child, and staying at a place called Deaver’s Springs, a few miles from Asheville. ‘It was a very pretty place,’ he said, ‘if I could remember where it was.’ I suggested that we should ask the direction from some inhabitant of the country—which we accordingly did, and heard that we must ‘drive straight on.’ So we drove straight on, along an excellent ridge road, with mountains to right of us, mountains to left of us, mountains before us and behind us. I have never conceived any thing so beautiful as the lights and shades on those superb heights, or their exquisite colors. Once we saw rain falling far away among the purple gorges, with the sun shining on it, and the effect was fairly divine!” “A very common effect among mountains,” says Eric.