“O mademoiselle,” says Victor, reproachfully, “how can you be so cruel? You promised that you would join our party. And now to talk of turning in the opposite direction—” “I don’t think I promised, Mr. Dupont,” says the young lady calmly. “I had no right to promise for the rest, you know. Of course, we can’t decide any thing without Aunt Markham’s consent; but I am inclined to think that this might be the best time to go down to the Warm Springs. A little gayety, now and then, is relished by the wisest men—and women. Asheville is not very gay.” “But Nature!” says the young man, rather aghast. “I thought you were so enthusiastic. I thought gayety would only annoy you!” “Not at all,” says Sylvia. “On the contrary, I like it—taken with Nature. And then this magnificent river! I _must_ see it before I go anywhere else. I shall propose the Warm Springs to Aunt Markham to-morrow. Meanwhile, I am going to get into the canoe, despite the half a foot of water, and whoever likes may come and pole me.” CHAPTER V. “Cliffs that rear their haughty head Hard o’er the river’s darksome bed, Where now all naked, wild, and gray, Now waving all with greenwood spray; The trees to every crevice clung And o’er the dell their branches hung, And there, all splintered and uneven, The shivered rocks ascend to heaven.” Sylvia carries her point without much difficulty. None of us are averse to turning our faces down the French Broad, and Aunt Markham is specially pleased by the idea. “It is a good plan,” she says, “because we shall escape joining the Dupont party. That Madame—what is her name?—fatigues me to death with her raptures and compliments.” “I think the Dupont party is, in a certain sense, at the bottom of the suggestion,” says Eric. “It changes our plan of travel altogether, but I am not inconsolable. I can endure any thing better than traveling in a gang, like convicts.” “You are very felicitous in your comparisons,” says Charley. “I doubt whether we shall get rid of Dupont, however. He is so desperate that I think he will leave his own party to join ours.” “Perhaps you will exchange with him,” says Sylvia. “I can’t imagine how you will support life without Adèle.” “It will be difficult, no doubt,” says Charley serenely, “but in traveling, as in politics, it is best to stand by one’s party. If Dupont joins us, I shall not greatly object. He is a degree or two better than that fellow Lanier.” The gentleman designated in this complimentary manner, meanwhile, makes his arrangements to join us. But when we are in readiness to start, one of those unavoidable misfortunes that sometimes befall summer travelers occurs—the rainy season in August begins. For three days it rains steadily—Asheville appearing the while depressingly dirty and dull—and it is only on the fourth day that the clouds disperse a little, the carriages are ordered, and we prepare to set forth.