This is depressingly true, yet, as we sit on the piazza late in the afternoon, there is a slight indication of breaking away. The rain “holds up,” as country people say; a glow of some faint, indescribable kind begins to light up the vapory heavens and turbid river-stretch. When we come out from tea the scene has become beautiful. Far down the river a primrose tint in the west shines through the green foliage, and the clouds are rolling away from the eastern heavens. Everything is dripping with moisture; but, equipping ourselves with water-proofs and overshoes, we go out on the bridge. It is impossible to describe the fresh loveliness of the scene as we stand with the turbulent, swollen river flowing underneath in long, swirling ripples, and watch the light die out of that portion of the west which we see through the river-gap. The clouds change their shapes and aspects momently—now watery gray, as they have been all day, now white as snowdrifts against a dark-blue sky. Solemn and stately, the great hills enclose us, with their aspect of eternal, melancholy calm, and from all the defiles white mists are rising. Something in the picture touches Sylvia. She turns from Ralph Lanier to where Charley stands leaning over the wet railing and whistling softly; laying her hand on his arm: “_You_ told me first about the French Broad,” she says, “but I did not fancy it was half so beautiful as this.” “As this!” repeats Charley. “Why, this is nothing. The grandeur of the gorge does not begin until four or five miles below here.” “Well,” she says, with a laugh, “it is pleasant to think that something better is coming—but this is good enough. Charley, that looks like a very pleasant road along the river-bank yonder. Can we not walk a little?” “Certainly,” answers Charley, with an alacrity he would not be likely to display if anyone else made the same suggestion. “You’ll find it rather damp, but if you have on overshoes—” “Oh, yes, overshoes and a water-proof. Come! I don’t want to go back to the house to play whist and be bullied by everybody round the table for not leading trumps.” She takes his arm, and they start, but Mr. Lanier in his anxiety cannot forbear entering a protest. “You are surely not going to walk on the side of the river, Miss Sylvia,” he says. “You’ve no idea how wet it is—you will certainly take cold.—Kenyon, this is very imprudent—” “Very good of you to consider my health,” says Charley. “I am afraid I may take a sore throat, or something of the kind; but when a lady gives an invitation, you know it is impossible to refuse.” “Aunt Markham will take my hand at whist, Mr. Lanier,” says Sylvia’s gay, mischievous voice. Then they walk away, and we soon see their figures strolling along the winding road by the river-bank. Eric laughs at the vexed expression which, even in the dim light, we see on Mr. Lanier’s face as he watches them.