“Mass Eric and all of ’em’s been wonderin’ what’s come of you, Mass Charley,” he says, taking Cecil, as Charley springs down. “They told me to tell you they’se up on the rock.” “So I see,” says Charley.—“Now, Sylvia, pin up your habit well, for we have some steep climbing to do.” “_Here?_” asks Sylvia, looking a little aghast at the face of the great rock which towers over them. “No, this way,” he answers, passing round the corner of the cliff to the side where Paint Creek comes down to the French Broad, reflecting in its clear water the varied tints of the ledges of rock that rise over it. A winding path—and a very steep one—leads from here to the summit of the cliff. When, breathless and exhausted, the two truants appear on top, they are received with a storm of greetings and inquiries: “Where on earth have you been?”—“What have you been doing?”—“Are you not ashamed of yourselves?”—“How is it that they told us at the ferry you had not crossed the river?”— “How did you get behind us when you started in front?” These and many like inquiries are asked all at once. Sylvia lifts her hands with an air of appeal. “Spare us, good people,” she says. “Just now we have no breath to tell you any thing. Will somebody lend me a fan?” “I have been seriously uneasy about you,” says Eric to Charley. “Not hearing of you at the ferry, I was afraid you had attempted to ford the river where we were in the habit of doing so a year or two ago, and the ferryman says the ford is dangerous now.” “We can testify that he is mistaken,” says Charley, with the most admirable nonchalance. “We _did_ cross at the ford, and here we are in safety.” “Crossed at the ford!” repeats a horrified chorus. “Good heavens, what a risk!” “Are you in earnest?” asks Eric, suspiciously. “If you crossed at the ford you ought to have been ahead of us, and here you are an hour behind.” “We spent that time eating muscadines on the bank of the river. It does not answer to hurry one’s self on an excursion of this kind.” “No, it seems not,” says Eric, dryly. Meanwhile, Mr. Lanier and Miss Hollis are conspicuous by their absence. Sylvia glances round and presently sees them at the farther end of the rock. “We must go and make amends for our rudeness,” she says to Charley. “They have really cause to be offended.” Neither of them proves implacable, and harmony is soon restored, only Mr. Lanier grows pale when he hears that Sylvia has added to her list of adventures the feat of having forded the “racing river.” [Illustration: The Cliffs.] “If I had been with you, I should never have suffered you to run such a risk,” he says. “So I told Charley,” answers the young lady, demurely.