“Ah!” says Charley, calmly. “But suppose the woman is not to be won by any kind of a heart? If I asked Sylvia such a question, she would tell me that it was no affair of mine.” “And that is all you know about it!” I think, as he saunters away. Puck’s words occur to me with great force—“Lord! what fools these mortals be!”—and never such fools as in a matter that would seem to demand, above all others, the exercise of the soundest sense. The next day is appointed for the excursion to Paint Rock—distant seven miles from the Springs, and consequently three miles over the Tennessee border. Several additions to our party make it quite large. Aunt Markham declines to go—seeing no attraction in rocks—but Eric fills both carriages with sight-seers, and two or three equestrians swell our number. Sylvia, as usual, is on horseback and looking her best—a best which quite extinguishes Miss Hollis, who also rides, but whose steed is poor and whose horsemanship is very defective. Eric places his handsome Cecil at her service, but she is afraid to mount him; hence Charley has the satisfaction of riding him. A better horse than Cecil on which to “show off” graceful horsemanship it would be difficult to find. He has not a single vicious trait, but his spirit would turn the hair of a timid rider gray with terror. He dances as if he had been reared in a circus, and, if he is required to stand for a minute, will rear straight up on his hind legs and paw the air with his front feet. He repeats this performance several times before we start—varying it by waltzing on the same hind legs; all of which makes Charley (who is a capital rider) appear to great advantage—to such advantage, indeed, that I wickedly suspect him of inciting Cecil to some of the feats. “O Mr. Kenyon, is _that_ the horse you wanted me to ride?” cries Miss Hollis, pale with consternation. “Good heavens! what should I have done!—He will break your neck—I am sure he will! Oh, pray don’t ride him!” Charley only laughs at this appeal. “Soh, Cecil—steady, old boy!” he says, patting Cecil’s beautiful arched neck. “He is gentle as a lamb,” he adds. “You could ride him without danger. He is only spirited and anxious to be off.” “I don’t think I like so much spirit,” says Miss Hollis, drawing her own steed away and looking askance at Cecil’s curveting bounds. Meanwhile, Sylvia’s pretty mare has caught the contagion, and is champing her bit and pawing the ground. “Neither of them likes to stand,” says Charley, looking at her. “Suppose we give them a run to keep them from pulling our arms off?” Sylvia—not perceiving all that lies behind this suggestion—assents. The horses only need permission to go. Side by side they start, and, keeping pace admirably, sweep down the carriage-drive along the front of the hotel, and vanish around the corner of the building.