“How beautiful it must be in this light!” cries Sylvia, addressing the company. “Let us go down there. It will be better than staying here.” “And returning to the hotel better than either,” says Charley. “Then do _you_ return,” she says. “But I don’t think one can possibly have too much of this divine beauty. All who are in favor of adjourning to the French Broad please hold up their hands.” Three pairs of hands are immediately lifted—to wit, Mr. Dupont’s, Mr. Lanier’s, and Rupert’s. “I shall be well protected, at any rate,” says Sylvia, coolly. “Will nobody else come?” “I’ve no doubt everybody else will come,” says Mr. Lanier. “How can they resist such an invitation?—Miss Dupont, you don’t really mean to stay behind?” No, Adèle does not mean to stay behind. The French Broad by moonlight is too tempting for her powers of resistance, even though the reluctance of her attendant is patent to the dullest observation. Carried away by the contagion of example, and feeling, in a measure, bound to look after the others, Eric and I bring up the rear, and so we stroll, in straggling procession, down the winding, moonlit road toward the French Broad. The least romantic of us feel repaid for our walk when we stand, at length, on the bridge, and see the river flowing underneath, all silver light and dark shadows. This bridge seems to mark the boundary of the change which awaits the stream. Up to this point it is swift but placid, impetuous yet not tumultuous, and flows through the loveliest of fertile valleys—first in Transylvania, then in Buncombe. Looking up the stream we see, lying white in the moonlight, the broad fields of the last; but, turning our gaze down the current, a very different picture greets us. Sheer and bold rise the hills among which the river enters here, and which it will not leave again until it has cut its stormy way through to Tennessee. “It seems to invite us to follow it,” says Sylvia, watching the sweeping current. “Listen! does it not say ‘Come and follow me?’ Why should we not do so?” “Why not?” says Charley. “Yonder is a canoe. Let us embark and attempt the through passage of the French Broad.” “We can at least get into the canoe and take a row,” says Adèle. “What is the good of water if one cannot go on it?” “A row!—a pole, you mean,” says Charley. “That is a mere dug-out, with half a foot of water in the bottom.” “I know all about poling,” says Rupert cheerfully. “_I’ll_ take you, Miss Dupont.” But Miss Dupont thinks of her pretty boots, her dainty skirts, and declines. “Dug-outs _are_ muddy things,” she says. “Now, at the Warm Springs there are excellent boats.” “The Warm Springs!” says Sylvia. “That is what I mean—that is where the river is inviting us. Why should we not go there at once?” “There is no reason why we should not—if you like,” says Eric.