“Nothing at present,” he answers. “What can a man do in the face of such a downpour as this? By nine o’clock there will probably be some signs of clearing. Then I will go to Laurel and see what the chances are for our getting across.” By nine o’clock there _are_ some signs of clearing. A few faint gleams of sunshine appear, and the mists begin to rise from the mountains. Horses are brought out, and the gentlemen, with the exception of Mr. Lanier, start for the banks of Laurel, which is said to be all the more dangerous—to have all the more force in its current—because it is higher than the French Broad, into which it empties. The morning passes in very dull fashion. Aunt Markham settles herself to a novel. Sylvia and I go out and stroll—wade, perhaps, would give a more correct idea of the road—along the river-bank, attended by Mr. Lanier. I soon grow tired of playing the part of “third wheel to the cart,” as the Germans say, and return to the house, leaving the others established in a cool, damp nook under some large trees that sweep the river with their bending boughs. An hour or two pass. No sign of the return of the horsemen; Aunt Markham grows uneasy, and suggests that they may have been drowned. Sylvia does not stir from her seat by the river; Mr. Lanier is talking earnestly—so earnestly that I feel a malicious inclination to go and break up the _tête-à-tête_. I have taken an unaccountable dislike to this young gentleman, despite his good looks and his well-filled purse. “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie,” I think—and then I see Prince Charley coming at a canter along the road. “Good news!” he says, as he draws up his horse. “Laurel is falling, and will be low enough by the afternoon for you to be ferried over in a canoe. Eric has made all the arrangements. I’ve seen the boat, and there is not the least danger.” “Are you sure of that?” asks Aunt Markham, tremulously. She is divided between her dislike to staying where she is and her terror of crossing in a canoe. “I never was in a dug-out,” she says, “but I’ve seen them often. They rock horribly, and will upset at a touch.” “Not this one,” says Charley. “Though a dug-out, it is two feet and a half wide.” The sun by this time is shining brilliantly, and with great heat. We take dinner; then the carriages are brought out, and the almost endless business of stowing away our luggage begins. Besides the trunks there are satchels and baskets, boxes of grasses, books of ferns, and an unlimited number of wraps. Aunt Markham declines to allow the last to be strapped together. “It is useless,” she says. “We shall need them before we have gone a mile.”