“O Eric,” cries Aunt Markham, with perturbation on her countenance, “let us go back to Alexander’s.” “I’m opposed to turning back,” says Rupert, who is balancing himself in a precarious manner on a tree which hangs over the water. “If we can’t cross Laurel, we can camp out.” “Well said, Rupert!” cries Sylvia. “I have always desired two things ardently—to camp out all night, and to be lost in the mountains. If we can compass the first, I shall have hopes of the last.” “Sylvia, how can you talk so foolishly!” says Aunt Markham.—“Eric, what do you mean to do?” “To go on, mother,” answers Eric. “These mountain streams run down as fast as they rise. We can’t reach Laurel before late afternoon, and it will be low enough to cross by that time.” Two things which are very essential in a leader Eric possesses—coolness and resolution. Many men under such circumstances would say to the party, “What shall we do?” and endless discussion would be the result. Eric simply announces what he means to do, and even Aunt Markham submits. “You’ll promise that if there is any danger you won’t take us in?” she says; and, when he says, “I promise that most positively,” she is content. Our luncheon over, we start again. A few miles brings us to Marshall, the seat of Madison County. A more singularly located village cannot well be imagined. It is situated immediately on the river, in a valley not more than a quarter of a mile wide, with sheer, steep hills rising abruptly behind, and the river in front. “The streams in this part of the country cannot rise like ours,” I say to Eric, “or else Marshall would be submerged twice a year at least. Think of the Yadkin, that rose last spring forty feet!” “The French Broad never rises like that,” he answers; “it runs off too rapidly. A bridge has been swept away here, but I doubt if the river came up to the town. We’ll ask.” We do ask, and are told that it came up to the first row of houses—about ten feet above its usual level—but rose no farther. The bridge went like a thread, and a pretty, cultivated island lying in the middle of the stream was entirely overflowed. We try to obtain some information about Laurel here, but nobody knows any thing. As we drive out of the town, a darkly threatening cloud is hanging over the mountains, and we hear “sounds of thunder afar.” We pause at the toll-gate, where a woman comes out to receive the toll, superintended by a cadaverous-looking man, evidently ill with fever, who is lying on a mattress in an upper piazza. Of him, also, we solicit information of Laurel. “I haven’t seen nobody from there to-day,” he responds, “but the stage came back last night without crossing. If it hasn’t rained any more on the head-waters, the river may be down by this time. There’s an old man living there that’ll show you the ford. Travelin’ fur?” “Down to the Springs,” answers Eric, touching the horses; and on we go.