“I call it jolly,” says Rupert, who is prancing about on Cecil, and getting as much as possible in everybody’s way. “Don’t ride that horse over me, Rupert!” cries Aunt Markham, retreating in terror and making convulsive efforts to scramble up the steep hill behind her. [Illustration: “There ain’t no danger at all.”] “I must say that I consider this a very great risk,” observes Mr. Lanier, climbing to where I have perched on the hillside, under the shade of a large walnut tree. “I shall not be surprised if Markham loses one or both of his carriages, and gets some of the horses drowned. In my opinion the river is still too high and too swift to be crossed with safety in any way.” “Suppose you stay on this side, then?” I cannot resist saying. “Yonder comes the ferryman. He seems to have no difficulty about bringing the boat over.” “What a pleasant way of crossing!” says Sylvia’s voice below. She is standing with Charley on the bank of the stream, while Eric, who lends a hand to every thing, is assisting Harrison to take off the trunks, and John and Rupert are taking out the horses. “What shall go over first—a cargo of trunks or a cargo of people?” she says, turning round as the boat touches the shore. “You and I will go,” says Charley. “Let us be the first to make the passage.” “The whole party may as well go,” says Eric. “The boat is large enough.” “We don’t want the whole party,” says Sylvia. “We mean to cross by ourselves, with a trunk or two for ballast.—Harrison, bring mine here.—If I go to the bottom, let me at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I take my wardrobe along with me.” Two or three trunks are placed in the boat. Sylvia and Charley embark, Mr. Lanier the while looking on anxiously and uttering one or two unheeded remonstrances; then the ferryman, who has been leaning on his pole, listening to every thing with a broad grin on his dusky face, pushes off. The boat rocks on the swift current, but he manages it with great skill, and, when they are halfway across, Sylvia’s gay tones—she has taken off her gloves and is dabbling with both hands in the clear-tinted water—float back to us. “O Charley, shall you ever forget the Laurel? Isn’t this delicious?” [Illustration: Crossing the Laurel.] “What strange ideas of enjoyment some people have!” says Mr. Lanier, who is seated on the roots of a tree, fanning himself. “I don’t think _I_ shall ever forget the Laurel; but as for seeing any thing delicious in such a business—”