“Those were not more than the pickets and outposts that you saw,” says our informant. “The main body of the fishing army is below here. I passed at least twenty in four miles to-day. Some of the fellows sat up fishing all night, and I know three men who only caught two fish among ’em—and those were cats.” “What’s the idea?” “Oh, well, it’s too wet to do any thing else, and they think the fish will bite better because the river’s muddy.” By the aid of conversation and cards, the afternoon and evening drag through. One shower succeeds another in the most rapid and disheartening succession, so that it is impossible to leave the house even for a short walk, and no one is sanguine enough to speak of “clearing off.” “We might as well go back to Asheville,” says Aunt Markham, who regards our prospects in the darkest manner. “Not without an effort to do otherwise,” says Eric. “I don’t choose to be baffled by Fate and the Laurel.” The day has been fatiguing, and we all retire early. Of the lodging and fare which we find at this wayside house, it is best to say no more than that the people gave us their best, and seemed honestly anxious to do all in their power to please us. About nine o’clock the stage passes back and reports Laurel still rising. We are, therefore, cheered when, on waking the next morning, we hear the rain coming down “in bucketfuls,” as Sylvia despondently remarks. “We shall have to stay here all day,” she says. “I feel sure of it. We cannot even go back to Alexander’s, for the creeks are up between here and there. Oh, dear! Were ever people out for a pleasure-trip more badly treated by the weather?” When we leave our room, Charley is the first person to meet us, with the pleasant sunshine of his face undimmed by the gloomy outlook. Surely an equable temperament is one of the greatest blessings in the world—especially in a traveling-companion. “‘Not for gold or precious stones would I leave my mountain home,’” he sings, gayly. “I hope you are in better spirits than Lanier is this morning, Sylvia. If matters go on at the present rate, I am afraid he will commit suicide or go melancholy mad. It is a pity to see a man have so little philosophy. Can’t you cheer him a little?” “I haven’t the least disposition to try,” says Sylvia. “Do any of us like the delay?— is it anybody’s fault? I am disgusted with Mr. Lanier, and I wish he had gone to a watering-place where he might dance the German to his heart’s content, instead of joining our party.” “Who is accountable for his joining it?” says Charley. But I do not think he is ill-pleased by the young lady’s petulance. We go out on the piazza. The sky is a leaden curtain, the rain is pouring in torrents, the road is black mud and water, the river is a turbid flood. There is a sheer wall of cliff and forest opposite, along the base of which the impetuous current sweeps. “What are you going to do, Eric?” we ask, as that gentleman comes up.