She makes a gesture signifying that this consideration is not worth a moment’s attention. “People expect to spend money when they are traveling,” she says, “and the cost of the whole expedition will be less than a month at a fashionable watering-place.” “And I’ll take the horses along with the carriage,” cries Rupert, eagerly. “The rest of you may go on the railroad if you like, but give me a horse forever!” “John will drive the carriage, and you can ride Cecil and lead Bonnibelle,” says Sylvia, with the air of a general issuing orders for a campaign. “Eric, what do you say?” asks Aunt Markham, turning to her eldest son, who is autocrat of the household. “What is left for me to say?” responds Eric, lighting his cigar. “The matter is apparently settled. I only desire that it may be clearly understood that I am not accountable for consequences. If the carriage is upset, and Bonnibelle breaks her own legs and Sylvia’s neck, nobody is to blame me.” “Nobody will think of blaming you,” says Sylvia, “You accompany us under protest—and such trifles as broken legs and necks are to be exclusively our own affair.” The next two weeks are devoted to preparing wardrobes and studying maps. Then, on a particularly warm Monday in August, we set forth on our journey. Rupert and John, with the carriage and horses, started the day before for Asheville, _via_ Hickory-Nut Gap. We take the railroad, and turn our faces toward Swannanoa. Our railroad-journey is uneventful, as railroad-journeys—unless varied by an accident—generally are. The cars are filled with the usual number of thirsty men and dusty women, of invalids, sight-seers, and pleasure-seekers. During the long pauses at the stations, we learn where most of these travelers are bound, and receive a great deal of interesting information about their social and domestic affairs. Few things strike one more forcibly in traveling than the general garrulity and egotism of human nature. This is entertaining for a time, but finally—taken in connection with a choking amount of dust, and a simmering degree of heat—it becomes almost intolerable. At last over the blazing noonday a grateful shadow steals, and, for the first time since early morning, we lift our window-blinds and look out. We are between the villages of Morganton and Marion, and fairly among the mountains. Already there is a greenness over the land, in striking contrast to the parched brownness of the low-country which we left behind; great hills roll up on all sides, and on our right the magnificent dark-blue masses of Table-Rock and Short-Off Mountain stand clearly defined against a lurid thunder-cloud. The road just here follows the lovely valley of the Catawba, and we see the river in the foreground, with its level meadow-lands, over which suddenly a white rain comes driving in a quick, sharp shower.