“So Miss Dupont went to ride also,” says Aunt Markham. “I wonder if there is no danger about the horses? Do you think Mr. Dupont was quite sure that they were safe? When one gentleman has charge of two ladies—” “Pardon!” says Madame Latour, looking a little surprised, “but Mr. Kenyon went also. He accompanied Adèle. Victor escorted your charming niece. Be sure she is quite safe under his protection. He is a dauntless rider,” etc., etc. I do not hear the end of the panegyric on Mr. Dupont, because I am so much surprised by this news of Charley. If it is strange that Sylvia should have been smitten with a mania for the beauties of Nature, sufficient to rouse her from her slumbers at daylight, what can be thought of an indolent gentleman, who has consistently and persistently declined to appreciate those beauties, when he also leaves his pillow for the saddle at five o’clock in the morning? We go to breakfast, and are devoting ourselves to beefsteak, hot cakes, and coffee, when the matutinal equestrians make their appearance. They come in directly from horseback—the girls still in their habits, loose locks of hair floating, fresh color mantling, youth and good spirits in look, manner, and bearing. They cause quite a sensation in the large dining-room as they make their way to our table. Sylvia sits down and heaves a deep sigh—a common mode with her of expressing inexpressible feelings. “Oh, it was heavenly!” she says. “I am hungry as a wolf,” remarks Charley. “What will I have?” (to the waiter:) “Any thing and every thing! When a man has been riding on an empty stomach for three hours, he is ready to exhaust your bill-of-fare.” “Mrs. Markham,” cries Adèle, eagerly, “it was lovely beyond every thing you can imagine!—Victor, tell them all about it! I am famished.” “I wonder if she thinks Victor is not famished too?” says Eric, under his mustache. However that may be, Victor obeys. Like most Frenchmen and people of French blood, he describes dramatically—his dark eyes quicken, he uses many gestures. “When we rode out of Asheville,” he says, “it was very early—some time before sunrise—and the mist, like a white curtain, wrapped every thing. We knew that this would add greatly to the effect if we could reach the top of the hill on which we were yesterday evening in time to see the sun rise. So we rode at a brisk pace and soon found ourselves there—mademoiselle and myself in advance of Adèle and Mr. Kenyon.” [Illustration: The Morning Ride.] “My horse was slow,” says Adèle, “and I grew tired of urging him on—I knew we should reach there soon enough.” “We rode up to the fortification,” continues Mr. Dupont. “The east was all aglow with radiance—the most beautiful colors momentarily changing on the sky—and the reflection fell over and gilded the great sea of vapor at our feet, which the wind was gently agitating into billows.”