“Charley is his own worst rival,” says Eric, touching the horse sharply. “If Sylvia ends by marrying somebody else, it will be his fault, and I shall not pity him. A man should be ready to fight for every thing—fortune, fame, and the woman he loves.” When we reach McDowell’s Hill we find all the equestrians assembled, Sylvia attended by her two cavaliers, Charley standing with an air of great nonchalance by Adèle’s horse. Only the very best actors do not overact a part, however, and there is a trifle too much nonchalance in this young gentleman’s bearing for perfect unconcern. The manner in which his hat is pushed back as he looks up into Adèle’s eyes is significant of irritated defiance. As soon as we draw up, he turns abruptly and comes to the side of the phaeton. “Where did you pick up that fellow?” he asks. “He is a fish caught in the Swannanoa,” says Eric. “I think you may find him a kindred spirit; he is nearly as fond of Nature, and of the exertion which a liking of that kind entails, as you are.” “I should not judge so from his appearance,” says Charley, with a sneer. Now, it must be stated that there is nothing in Mr. Lanier’s appearance to draw forth a sneer. He is dressed as men in cities dress, but that is, to say the least, not a heinous crime, and he would be called by most people a very handsome man. Charley is _not_ handsome, though his frank, pleasant face is infinitely more agreeable than Ralph Lanier’s well-cut features. His blue eyes look into mine with an odd kind of appeal, and I say hurriedly, “Don’t be disconsolate, Charley—he talks of going to-morrow!” Then Eric claims my attention for the view. It is certainly fine, though not so extensive as that from Beaucatcher. At our feet the hill shelves down abruptly, and two hundred feet below lies a green expanse—the valleys of the French Broad and Swannanoa at their junction. Here the Swannanoa, making a graceful curve on the verdant plain, empties its waters into the channel of the beautiful stream which has come from the far heights of the Balsam to seek it. It is only possible to mark the winding course of its current by the trees that fringe its banks, but the French Broad spreads out in full view—its splendid “breast of waters” shining in the glow of sunset. Bounding the cultivated valley, green hills roll softly up, while beyond stretches the blue-waving mountain line, with the majestic outlines of Pisgah and the Cold Mountain overtopping their lower brethren. Far and faint in the west the trending heights that overlook Tennessee stand, their violet crests outlined against a bed of glory into which the sun is sinking with great pomp.