Charley shakes his head as he falls back. He is plainly not sanguine about Laurel. The case is desperate now, however; it is too far to go back—we must go on. Two or three showers have passed over us, but we are inured to wettings by this time, and do not mind them; massed clouds are before and behind, but we scarcely glance at them. On we drive for three miles farther, rugged cliffs hanging over us, a rocky road below, the rushing river by our side. Every-thing around is so wild that unconsciously our spirits begin to fail a little. What if Laurel should be up? Where and how shall we spend the night? “I think there is a storm coming over, Eric,” says Aunt Markham, presently, from the back of the phaeton. “Shall we not better put up the top?” Eric turns, partly to look at the clouds, partly to assist in pulling up the top. In doing so, he fails to avoid one of the rocks of which the road is full. Crash against it goes the phaeton-wheel, there is a loud snap under our feet, and, as Eric pulls up the horses, he says: “By George, there goes a spring!” The equestrians are lingering in the rear, but, seeing our abrupt halt, Charley comes up at a canter. “Ride on and stop those fellows in front,” says Eric, as he comes abreast of us, “and tell John to bring a rope here.—I am sorry to say you must all get out of the carriage.—Rupert, come and unharness the horses.” We alight, and Aunt Markham seats herself on a rock with an expression of countenance that might move a statue to amusement. Disgust, despair, consternation, unutterable resignation to any thing that may occur—all this is so plainly visible on her face that I go to the river-bank—about two feet distant—to enjoy a private laugh. Meanwhile, Sylvia and her escort appear on the scene. “Spring broken?” says Mr. Lanier, looking almost as much concerned as Aunt Markham. “What luck!” “I’ve been ’feared of that spring all along, Mass Eric,” says John, coming up with a coil of rope over his shoulder. “Well, the worst has come,” says Eric, “so now let us go to work and remedy it.— Charley, lend a hand here.” While Rupert holds the horses—which have been taken out of the carriage—and Eric, Charley, and John bandage the broken spring, Mr. Lanier sits on his horse and contemplatively pulls his mustache. He is evidently of the opinion that misfortune has marked us for its own, and that traveling on the French Broad has its disadvantages. Suddenly Aunt Markham extends her hand like a tragedy-queen and points up the river. “The rain is coming,” she says. “Will somebody bring me a water-proof?” Mr. Lanier springs from his horse and goes in search of this garment—not an instant too soon. We have scarcely time to envelop ourselves before the rain is upon us. There comes a blaze of lightning, a volleying peal of thunder, then the clouds empty themselves in a white, blinding sheet that almost takes away our breath and promises to soak us to the skin.