We linger on the summit of the cliff until the sunset tints have melted into dusk and the clouds have lost their splendor. Even then it is hard to turn and go—not knowing when we shall look on so fair a scene again. The great hills stand around, wrapped in their everlasting silence; the river surges along its stormy way below; soft evening shadows have fallen over the valley; purple shades are gathering on all the mountain-sides; a faint yet lovely glow of color still lingers in the west; the air is delicious in its freshness. “Why cannot one grasp such hours as this, and make them last?” says Sylvia, with a sigh. “Here comes the Asheville stage,” says Mr. Lanier, leaning over the edge of the cliff. Mrs. Cardigan looks over also, and drops a flower on the head of an outside passenger, who glances up with a start. “Heavens! how ugly he is!” she says. “If he were young and handsome, now, what an opening for a romance!” “I am sure he would be young and handsome if possible,” says Charley; “but I beg to observe that ugly men are by no means insensible to openings for romance. I belong to that class myself, so I know whereof I speak.” “Charley, such remarks are never in good taste,” says Sylvia. “Don’t try to extort compliments, but help me down this cliff.” “I thought you never required help in climbing,” says Mr. Lanier, watching with some jealousy the hands which surrender themselves to Charley. “This is not climbing—it is descending,” replies the young lady, coolly. “And I don’t want to fall. It is _much_ easier to mount than to go down.” I do not think that Mr. Lanier is altogether convinced by this positive statement— or perhaps he remembers how often his assistance was declined during the descent of the morning. At all events, he walks by my side as we return to the hotel—a fact which does not seem to damp Sylvia’s spirits, for we hear her voice chatting gayly to Charley as they stroll in front. The next morning we prepare to leave the Springs, but, despite the conversation on Lover’s Leap the evening before, most of us are surprised when Mrs. Cardigan appears in traveling dress and announces that she has taken a seat in the stage. “I only regret that I shall be separated from you all,” she says, “and that I can’t go on the top of the coach. One can see so little inside—but one does not like to mount on the top without a gentleman.” At this we all look at Eric, who, after a moment’s hesitation, does what is expected of him with tolerable grace. “If you will allow me,” he says, “I will take a seat with you on the top of the coach. You can see nothing at all inside, and you need some-one who is familiar with the river to point out the noted places to you.” “Oh, how delightful that would be!” cries Mrs. Cardigan rapturously. “But I cannot be selfish enough to consent to such a thing! You must not leave your charming carriage to mount on that jolting stage—don’t tempt me, please! Good-by.”