The rest of the trunks, Aunt Markham and myself, accompanied by this gentleman, cross next. Eric and Rupert remain behind to superintend the sending over of the carriages. We are landed in safety, despite one or two alarms on Aunt Markham’s part. “O—h!” she says, in a prolonged gasp, every time that the boat gives a lurch— and dug-outs are by no means the steadiest crafts in the world. Mr. Lanier says nothing. He only sits on a trunk and looks grave. He is not afraid—as he has taken some trouble to explain—but he disapproves of running reckless risks, and he objects to getting his feet wet in a muddy canoe. Sylvia and Charley welcome us gayly. There is a prettily-shaded spring, not more than five steps from the river, where they have seated themselves and opened the lunch-basket—filled at Alexander’s, and not emptied yet. There is a bottle of claret which Charley is opening with his knife. “We drink to the passage of the Laurel!” he says. “May our future adventures be as pleasant!” One or two of the party object to this sentiment—but they drink the claret. The children of the ferryman come in detachments to stare at us and the proceedings on the other bank. A hungry-looking, soft-eyed hound draws near and is fed generously by Sylvia. We talk and laugh and watch the carriages being brought over in pieces—first the bodies, then the wheels—and applaud the gallant horses that come out dripping and shining from their bath. Even Mr. Lanier begins to admit that there is some pleasure in all this. Walnut Mountain rises superbly behind us; the clear waters of Laurel sweep swiftly in front; the wild, deep gorge down which the latter flows is in shadow, while the afternoon sunlight falls broadly on the rushing French Broad. “If life were all like this,” says Sylvia, leaning back against a rock, her hat off, her pretty hair in a curly tangle, “what a charming thing it would be!” “You seemed to think it particularly charming last night,” says Rupert, with an explosion of boyish laughter. He has come to refresh himself after his arduous exertions—his hat is on the back of his head, his face aflame with color. “Did you see what trouble we had to get Brimmer into the water?” he asks. “He knew as well as I did that he would have to swim, and he didn’t fancy the idea.” The passage of the Laurel, with the attendant trouble of putting the carriages together again and reharnessing the horses, occupies two hours. It was three o’clock when we paused on its farther bank; it is five when Eric at last says, “All ready,” and we prepare to start for the Springs. “Good-by, Wash,” says Charley, addressing the ferryman, who, after eleven trips across the river, seems disposed to think that rest from labor is sweet. “May you live a thousand years, and may your shadow never grow less! You have our blessing, and, if you should ever be called upon to do a thing of this kind again, you’ll understand the proper method.” “Yes, sah—thanky, sah,” responds Wash, with a grin.