We are not allowed to enjoy this charming beauty with any satisfaction to ourselves very long. The clouds gather again, the rain begins once more—this time with a steady, settled persistence that gives no hope of abatement, and presently Rupert rides up to the side of the carriage. “Brother Eric says we shall have to stop at Alexander’s. He declares it is impossible to go on to the Springs in such weather as this. It is disagreeable to us, and hard on the horses.” “What a bore!” says Sylvia. “Alexander’s is no doubt a very pleasant place, but when one starts with an object in view, one likes to attain it. What must be, must be, however. We should certainly see little of the gorge in this deluge.” Consequently, we make our first halt at Alexander’s, ten miles below Asheville. No house of its kind is more widely known, or more deservedly popular, than this delightful hostelry. One secret of its charm is in the fact that there is no aping of the modern hotel about it. Nothing can be more quaint, more old-fashioned, more comfortable, and thoroughly unpretentious than all its arrangements. A pleasant farm-house on a large scale, with a post office and bowling alley in front, a bridge crossing the river, and high, green hills rising abruptly around—this is Alexander’s. Of the comfort of its lodging, the excellence of its table, thousands of travelers can speak. Withal, it is a dreamy, restful place, where even the racing river grows tranquil, and, shut in by the great hills, one feels as if one might enjoy that repose of mind and body which is rare in this feverish age. We find the house, as usual, full of guests—so full that Mr. Alexander demurs about receiving us; but, moved to compassion by the towering skies and our drenched condition, finally agrees to stretch a point and take us in. This is something for which to be grateful, since there is no cessation in the steady downpour for the rest of the day. The river—usually green as Niagara—sweeps by, a turbid flood, and sight-seeing is utterly out of the question. We play whist on the vine-draped piazza, go over to the bowling alley under umbrellas, grow friendly with all the inmates of the house, study maps, and learn all about the great floods of the past spring. “Almost all the bridges in this part of the country were swept away,” says Mr. Alexander. “The bridge over Laurel went—you ford the river now—and the bridge at the Warm Springs over the French Broad.” “Do we ford there?” asks Aunt Markham, terrified at such a prospect. “No, there is a ferry.” “One of the most inconvenient modes that ever was devised for crossing a stream,” says Eric. “I don’t think we are likely to cross any streams in any manner very soon,” says Charley. “The clouds look as if they had settled steadily to business, and meant to rain for a week.”