“Give her line, Ralph,” he says, good-naturedly. “A fish like that is not landed at once—if, indeed, you are lucky enough to land her at all.” “I sometimes think, by Jove, that I never shall,” says Mr. Lanier, with emphasis. “One minute she is as kind and gracious as could possibly be desired; the next she thrusts a fellow off at arm’s length. I don’t pretend to understand such women.” “They don’t generally intend that you should understand them,” says Eric, quietly. After this we return to the house and play another game of whist—Aunt Markham taking Sylvia’s hand, and calling Mr. Lanier sharply to account for all the blunders which he makes, and which owe their origin to a distracted mind. Whist-players know what concentration of thought this game demands, and poor Mr. Lanier’s thoughts are following Sylvia up and down the wet riverside. She comes in late, with wet boots and draggled skirts, but a pretty flush on her cheeks and light in her eyes. “We have been watching the moon rise,” she hastens to assure Aunt Markham. “There is a bluff about a quarter of a mile down the river, which is perfectly lovely.—Are my feet wet? Well, yes—slightly so, but I am going to bed, so it does not matter. Good-night.” “One moment, Miss Sylvia!” cries Mr. Lanier, springing after her; but she flits away with a laugh and is gone. The first sound I hear next morning is that of rain heavily falling, but by breakfast-time a few faint gleams of sunshine have appeared, and after breakfast we decide to order the carriages and make another effort to reach the Warm Springs. Half a dozen amateur weather-prophets assure us that it will be a clear day. “The mists are rising, the clouds are breaking,” they say. “By twelve o’clock you will have as much sun as you want, and perhaps a little more.” Cheered by these assurances, we start. Eric and I in the wagon lead the way, the carriage and horsemen follow. But for the heaviness of the road, the day would be delightful—a perfect day for traveling. Light veils of cloud obscure the sun, though now and then a burst of sunlight breaks forth and lights up the world with splendor. Three or four miles below Alexander’s we enter on that part of the road which leads below the cliffs. They rise over our heads hundreds of feet—these beautiful, majestic heights— broken ledges and masses of rock, in every interstice of which great pines grow, and thickets of rhododendron flourish. In the dark shade, ferns, flowers, and mosses abound, together with trees of every variety, while down the hillsides and over the rocks countless streams come leaping in foam and spray.