“I am sorry for people who can only admire uncommon things,” says Sylvia, “when the things that are best worth admiring in the world are all of them common. Mr. Dupont fully agrees with me that this is the most beautiful country in America.” [Illustration: Scene on the Road-side.] “I wonder if he has seen them all?” says Charley. “We were so engrossed,” Sylvia proceeds, ignoring this remark, “that we drove on, forgetting all about time and distance, until after a while we reached some bars, where we had been directed to ‘turn off’—or, rather, to turn in. Mr. Dupont let them down, and from a house across the road several children came rushing to mind the gap while we went to the spring. The road into which we turned led us past a log-cabin, in front of which two or three stout men were lazily smoking and gossiping. We asked for a tumbler—were given one of thick, green glass, and drove on. Mr. Dupont pointed out a hill on the left as the site of the hotel which was once quite a place of resort.” “I have heard of Deaver’s Springs,” says Aunt Markham. “The hotel was burned, I believe.” “Yes, burned and never rebuilt; but the springs are still there, with a pavilion over them. We drove down the hill at the risk of smashing the phaeton or breaking our necks—for, having come so far, of course we felt it incumbent on us to drink some of the water.—As soon as I tasted it, I thought of you, auntie, and I sent Mr. Dupont back to the house to get a vessel in which we could bring some to you. He returned with the jug you have seen, and I filled it _myself_.” “Thank you, my dear,” says Aunt Markham. “The moral of the story,” says Eric, “is that this young lady was going to see the French Broad, and the only glimpse of the river to be obtained between Asheville and Deaver’s Springs is what you see while crossing it.” “The moral of the story is that the best philosophy in life is to enjoy all that you can, when you can,” says Sylvia, gayly. CHAPTER III. “And always, be the landscape what it may— Blue misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain— It is the eye’s endeavor still to gain The fine, faint limit of the bounding day. God haply, in this mystic mode, would fain Hint of a happier home, far, far away.” “And this is Beaucatcher in front of us!” says Sylvia. “Such a fine height deserves a better name.” “The name is vulgarly foolish,” says Eric, “but as far as absolute ugliness goes, there are worse within the borders of Buncombe. What do you think of creeks named Hominy, Cane, Turkey, Sandy Mush—?” “O Eric!” “Literally true, I assure you. Then there are Beaver Dam, Bull, and Flat—all clear, rushing mountain streams.”