It does not come for some time. We cannot resolve to break the spell which rests over us. We talk very little, and that little in low tones. It is enough to see the splendor of the west grow faint and more faint, while the far, heavenly mountains change from blue to tender gray. Suddenly Charley lifts himself on his elbow and points toward the east. We turn and see the silver face of the full moon rising slowly over the tree-tops into the hyacinth sky. The appearance of her pale, pure majesty above the chain of hills that stretch eastward to the Black fills our cup of pleasure to the brim. It is a scene to hold in remembrance while life shall last. We linger until we see lights like stars, gleaming here and there in Asheville. Then we know that our enchanted hour has ended. “At least _one_ enchanted hour,” says Sylvia, as Mr. Dupont folds her shawl around her, “but I hope that there are many more in reserve for us. Like Moses, I have had a glimpse of the Promised Land, and now I shall not be content till I have seen every thing that is to be seen.” Silver lights and dark shadows are lying on the streets of Asheville when, footsore and weary, we cross the large open square in the business part of the town, and turn into the street which leads to our hotel. To tired and hungry humanity, the lights blazing out from the inn are more cheerful than the beauty of the great constellations shining overhead; and, although Eric has made one or two astronomical remarks, we have not paid them the attention which no doubt they deserve. “To-morrow night we will go to Battery Porter and study astronomy at our leisure,” says Sylvia. “To-night I shall first do full justice to the _cuisine_ of the ‘Eagle,’ then I shall beg Mr. Dupont to play for me the ‘Cradle Song,’ and perhaps a strain or two of Mendelssohn. After that I shall say good night to everybody. I shall go to bed, and I shall sleep—like a top!” “I thought you would have said like an angel,” says Victor. “But angels never sleep,” says Charley. This programme is carried out. After supper the young Creole goes to the piano, shrugs his shoulders in expressive disgust over its untuned condition, and makes Sylvia understand that it is only because _she_ desires it that he condescends to touch so poor an instrument. But when he begins to play, he draws forth, even from it, such melody that the chattering groups which fill the room are hushed into silence. His sister is right—he is an admirable musician, an amateur evidently, but cultivated in taste and _technique_ as few amateurs are. His music is in the lullaby key which Sylvia suggested—the “Cradle Song” for which she asked, and those exquisite, dreamy nocturnes in which German composers excel—until at last he turns and asks with a smile if she is asleep. [Illustration: At the Piano.] “Not yet,” she answers, “but if this goes on, I soon shall be. It is like mesmerism.”