Presently a fire is roaring up the great chimney, and, by the time the gentlemen come to inquire how we have fared, we are restored to our normal condition of dryness and warmth. Nevertheless, flasks are produced and potations insisted upon. “It is the only way to keep from taking cold,” says Eric, imperatively. “Your wishes are gratified, Miss Sylvia,” says Ralph Lanier, with rather an air of reproach. “You were desiring adventures—here they are.” “Do you consider me the Jonah who has brought all this ill-luck?” she asks, laughing. “In that case I ought to be thrown overboard—ought I not? The river is convenient for any thing of that kind.” The violence of the rain abates before very long, and we go out on the piazza to look around. The prospect is cheerless in the extreme. The house has a dispirited air of decay, and rose-trees have grown to a tangled thicket in front. At the end of the piazza two young men are talking to our host. Charley says that they are from South Carolina, and are on a walking-tour through the mountains. “They came from the Springs to-day,” he adds, “and crossed Laurel in a canoe. We met them, if you remember, just before our breakdown.” As the rain abates, our spirits sink. Let it abate ever so much, we have still the certainty of an aimless afternoon and comfortless night before us. No hope of crossing Laurel before the next day, no possible chance of returning to Alexander’s. Suddenly, however, a cry is raised that somewhat cheers us: “The stage is coming!” “By Jove!” says Mr. Lanier, “I felt sure that fellow was deceiving us about Laurel.” “That fellow” has also arrived by this time, and, in a very damp condition, is seated near. It is a chance whether or not he hears this grateful speech. Fortunately, the attention of everyone is fastened on the stage, which comes into sight—empty! We salute the driver with a cry. “Are you going over Laurel?” _Driver._ “Mean to try.” Then he nods to the man who warned us: “How are you, George?” George shakes his head. “You can’t cross,” he says. “I’ll take the mail to the banks anyway,” responds the other, driving on. “If you find that you can cross, _please_ come back for us,” cries Sylvia, eagerly. “He’s not likely to cross,” say the men at the other end of the piazza. Mr. Lanier shrugs his shoulders impatiently. “There’s no relying on a word these people say,” he remarks. “But the bridge should have been rebuilt long ago. It is infamous for travelers to be delayed in this manner. What a place this is for ladies to spend the night!” “Don’t trouble yourself about us,” replies Sylvia, nonchalantly. “We do not mind a little hardship; but I am afraid _you_ have made a grave mistake. Had you not better turn round even yet and go to the White Sulphur and Saratoga?” The young man colors. “I was not thinking of myself,” he says. “Of course it does not matter to me—at least not very much.”