“I suppose they will be back in a minute,” says Mr. Lanier, looking after them uneasily, “but it is very wrong of Kenyon to encourage Miss Sylvia in riding so recklessly. There is always danger of an accident.” [Illustration: The Runaways.] “Sylvia can take care of herself,” says Eric, gathering up the reins—he is to drive the phaeton—“and Charley is not likely to lead her into danger.—Now, are all ready?” “All ready,” answers a chorus of voices from the “jersey,” which is filled to-day with other freight than trunks. “No, no,” cries Miss Hollis; “Mr. Kenyon has not come back.” “We must wait for Miss Sylvia,” says Mr. Lanier. “Not at all necessary,” says Eric. “We can follow them.” “But they went a different road from ours.” “No—they took the right road. The turnpike on the other side of the river is badly washed by the late rains, so we keep on this side for two or three miles, then cross at a lower ferry.” “They will wait for us, then?” says Miss Hollis. “I presume so,” answers Mr. Lanier. These expectations are doomed to disappointment. We drive around the hotel, leave the grounds, cross Spring Creek, and follow the stage-road which leads along the river toward Wolf Creek, but the eyes which are strained eagerly ahead discover no sign of the runaways. CHAPTER VIII. “As she fled fast through sun and shade, The happy winds upon her played, Blowing the ringlets from the braid; She looked so lovely as she swayed The rain with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.” To be mounted on a good horse, to have a pleasant companion who is equally fortunate, and a good stretch of road before one—there is nothing in the whole list of physical enjoyments so absolutely exhilarating and delightful. Those who are aware of this will not be surprised that Sylvia gives little thought to the disconsolate escort and forsaken party whom she has left behind, as Cecil and Bonnibelle press eagerly forward at a sweeping canter. The morning is superlatively fresh and fair, the sunlight is bright without oppressive heat, the river-breeze wafts the soft hair back from her face, the hedges and wayside fences, overhung with clematis, flit past, the horses keep pace admirably and enjoy the race as much as—or more than— their riders. Altogether, it is a bit of the most genuine pleasure, which ends only when it is necessary to check their impetuous course at a steep descent around one of the limestone cliffs which begin here. “Oh, was not that heavenly?” says Sylvia, drawing a long breath. “Was there ever before such a charming creature as Bonnibelle? And Cecil is worth his weight in gold! Now”—a sigh—“ought we not to wait for the others?”