“Because I don’t want Adèle to have the pleasure of flirting with him,” is the candid reply. “She is a dreadful flirt, and has a particular knack of making fools of men. Of course, I am not afraid of her making a fool of Charley in any _serious_ manner, but still I should like her to be disappointed—and you know she could do nothing with Eric.” “I know that I have occasionally heard of such a thing as Satan reproving sin. If you want Charley looked after, why don’t you do it yourself?” “How can I, with Mr. Dupont on my hands?” “Turn Mr. Dupont over to me. I will take charge of _him_.” I make this suggestion in a spirit of malice which Sylvia understands. She takes up her gloves as she quietly replies: “Mr. Dupont asked me if I would not ride with him. It is impossible, therefore, for me to turn him over to anyone else.” “I am afraid Charley will become a hopeless victim to Miss Dupont’s fascinations, then,” I say coolly. Events verify this prediction. When we go down-stairs, we find the horses standing before the door, and Charley in the act of assisting Miss Dupont to her saddle. This feat is accomplished very well on both sides. The lady puts one dainty foot—all creole women have pretty feet—into the gentleman’s hand, he lifts her, she springs, and presto! the thing is done. Mr. Kenyon swings himself into his own saddle as quickly, then turns and waves his hand to us— “‘She is won! we are off, over bush, bank, and scaur— They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’” he says, as they ride away. “Their steeds were not particularly fleet the last time they rode, were they, Mr. Dupont?” says Sylvia, looking after them. “Adèle, you know, said her horse wouldn’t go; but he seems to go now very well. I hope they will miss the road for their hypocrisy!” “Charley has probably taken care to make inquiries,” says Eric, handing me into the small phaeton. [Illustration: The Swannanoa.] Few rivers have been more praised and rhymed than the Swannanoa, toward which we take our way. To those who have not penetrated far into the mountains and seen wilder and lovelier streams, it is certainly a thing of beauty. The stream itself is clear as crystal and flows with glancing swiftness between its vine-draped banks, while it is scarcely possible to imagine a more charming picture of fertility than the valley presents. We follow the river for several miles—every turn opening fresh scenes of loveliness—and finally pause at a ford where Sylvia and Mr. Dupont ride into the stream. Lances of sunlight dart through the lace-work of shade, touch the sparkling current, and dapple the glossy coats of the horses. The rippling river makes a background in long perspective for the two riders, and on the opposite side the road leads up between high, picturesque banks. “Is not this delightful?” cries Sylvia. “One might expect to see Diana and all her nymphs. Instead, I see an ox-cart coming in one direction, and two horsemen in another.”