“There’s not the least danger of her breaking her own neck,” puts in Charley’s quiet voice. “She climbs like a deer, and her head is as cool as—as an iceberg. But I wouldn’t insure Lanier’s neck,” the speaker ends, calmly. The ascent of the mountain is slow and very difficult. Sylvia was correct in saying that she requires little assistance—which is fortunate, since it is evidently quite as much as her escort can do to assist himself. She leads the way, grasping the bushes with one hand, and planting her alpenstock with the other. Eric and Mrs. Cardigan take a slightly different route, and the two couples keep tolerably well abreast of each other. Now and then they pause to rest, and once we see Sylvia mounted on a large rock, waving her handkerchief to us in an ecstatic manner, while Mr. Lanier leans exhausted against it. [Illustration: “Once we see Sylvia mounted on a large rock, waving her handkerchief.”] “What hot work it must be!” say the lookers-on. “I am as devoted to Nature as anybody,” remarks Miss Hollis, “but I must say that I think such an exertion as this _foolish_—don’t you, Mr. Kenyon?” “I am opposed on principle to all unnecessary exertion,” answers Mr. Kenyon, “and just now I am so well satisfied to be under this tree—with you—that the finest view in the world could not tempt me away.” As the adventurous climbers mount higher and yet higher, it makes one giddy to look at them, hanging by such precarious foothold on the precipitous height. Several times we prophesy that they will be forced to return without gaining the summit, but they go on undauntedly, sending showers of loose stones down the mountain at every step. Occasionally we lose sight of them among the rocks and bushes, but again they are in full view, and we can see them, for they have joined forces, dragging each other up some particularly steep ascent. At last, a faint, prolonged shout tells us that they have reached the top, and we recognize Mrs. Cardigan in the figure that waves a handkerchief on an alpenstock exultantly. “The question now is, how long will they stay there?” says a member of the party, who is anxious for his dinner. They remain for what seems to us a long time, and it is not until most of the gentlemen have made themselves hoarse by shouts that are probably not heard, and certainly not answered, that they begin the descent. This is almost as difficult as the ascent, and it is still some time before they appear on the rock, with faces flushed scarlet, dresses torn, and an utter insolvency in the matter of breath. Sylvia speaks first. “Look at my gloves!” she says, extending her hands. We look, and appreciate fifty percent higher the difficulties of the ascent. The gloves are dog-skin gauntlets, and the entire palms are peeled off white. “You should keep those in remembrance of the Paint Rock Mountain,” says some one. “She has plenty of mementos,” says Mr. Lanier. “Look here!”