This portion of the view is like that which Beaucatcher commands, but turning northward we have a prospect which no other point near Asheville possesses. There, dark and massive, rise the great peaks of Craggy, and the stately pinnacle of the Black. As usual, these mountains are cloud-topped, and even at this distance—eighteen or twenty miles—wear the deep shade of color which has given a name to the range. Spurs running down from them form a chain of hills around the entire northeastern horizon, and at their base lies Asheville, scattered over its picturesque slopes. “I am converted,” says Mr. Lanier, breaking the silence. “The country which contains such views as this is worth seeing.—Miss Norwood, will you accept a recruit for your party?” “I must refer you to Eric,” says Sylvia. “I am not the leader of the party, nor qualified to judge of your fitness for the service. I am afraid, however, that if you like society and civilization, you will be disgusted with the wilds to which we are going.” “But we shall take the best of society and civilization with us,” he remarks gallantly. “We’ll show you at least what a mountain view is before we get back,” says Charley. “Only hopeless ignorance could excuse anybody for thinking this worth any special admiration.” There is a chorus of indignant dissent, in which only Sylvia fails to join. She says quietly: “We are both hopelessly ignorant then, Mr. Lanier, for I think this the most beautiful view I have seen in the mountains.” “You have not yet seen any thing at all,” says Charley. “Beaucatcher in itself is very little, but it is finer than this, which proves that your taste needs cultivation. Mr. Lanier, no doubt, will be able to assist you in cultivating it.” What reply the young lady makes is not audible to the rest of the party, but there is a flash in her eye and a flush on her cheek that do not bode well for Master Charley. After this, hostilities are suspended while we watch the sun go down behind the last chain of western heights. For several minutes after his disk has disappeared, the mountains behind which he sank are transformed into dazzling, translucent gold. The effect is indescribable. “They cannot be mountains; they _must_ be clouds,” some one says; but they are mountains, though they lie like clouds on the distant horizon. Meanwhile a haze of luminous color spreads over the blue chain encircling the southern sky, and the wide breast of the French Broad is painted by the magical splendor. It is so beautiful that we linger until the fires of sunset have nearly burned out, and Venus is shining in serene state. Then we return to Asheville by a road which leads through woods full of dusk shadows and sweet odors. Arching shade droops over us; the air is inexpressibly fresh and pure; we cross a bridge with the ripple of flowing water underneath; every sound seems “but an echo of tranquillity” in the soft hush of the summer twilight.