“That is beating the devil about the bush,” he says. “You know as well as I do what Lanier means, and what he hopes. As for me, I’ve never made any secret of what I feel for you. I don’t pretend that it gives me any claim on you; I’m perfectly aware that you don’t care two pins for me; but still, for the sake of our old comradeship, you might let me know whether you contemplate becoming Mrs. Lanier.” The color still remains on her face. She looks down and beats nervously on the side of her foot with her riding-whip. “Honestly, I don’t know,” she says, “but—I—don’t—think—I—do. It is impossible to tell, however. The world and the devil may prove too strong for me. One thing is certain—I don’t encourage him. You see for yourself that I snub him constantly.” “Your clothes are dry, miss, if you want to put ’em on,” says a voice behind. The dry clothes having been assumed and the horses brought out, they set forth with renewed spirit in search of their party. The day has advanced considerably toward its zenith, but heat in this altitude is rarely oppressive. Moreover, the road is very shaded—the same turnpike along the bed of the river, overhung by hills and cliffs, with which they have become familiar—and their rapid motion creates a breeze. One fair, wild scene succeeds another, like enchantment. Here and there the winding river grows still and glassy as a mountain lake, sweeping softly by banks that are shadowed by drooping trees and draped with graceful vines. Again it breaks into tumult once more— though not such tumult as that above the Springs—or flows in eddying ripples around the greenest of green islands. Presently the road passes beneath a magnificent cliff, the surface of which is broken into irregular escarpments like layers of stone, and Charley says: “Here is the Paint Rock. Notice the streaks of color from which it takes its name. Is it not singular that anybody could be so ignorant as to fancy that this, which plainly is part of the composition of the rock, was laid on by human hands?” “Does anybody really think so?” “Yes, a great many people think that the Indians painted it—at least they say so. The mingling of colors is certainly peculiar, is it not?” “Very peculiar and very beautiful. I wish you were a geologist, that you might tell me what gives that deep-red tint. Hark! what is that?” It is a shout, apparently from the clouds. “Halloa!” says a voice from above. “Here we are!” Charley looks up and waves his hat by way of reply. Sylvia also glances up. A hundred and fifty feet above, a group of figures stand, outlined like silhouettes against the blue sky. Riding a little farther, they find the carriages and horses in the shade by the river-bank, with Harrison reclining comfortably on the seat of the wagon. Seeing the riders approach, he lifts himself and descends to the ground.