“Yes’m—it was a considerable resk,” says John. “If these horses wasn’t the gamest I ever drove, we’d a-gone into the river certain. I was of the ’pinion for about a minute that we _was_ goin’.” “There’s no good in frightening one’s self over past danger,” I say. “We didn’t go—that’s enough.—Jump out, aunty. The carriage is full of water, and my feet are as wet as if I had waded.” Varied by such adventures as these—for two or three more clouds discharge themselves upon us—we travel up the gorge, pausing now and then when the weather chances to be propitious. There are rocks—like those at the Devil’s Slip Gap—to be climbed; flowers, ferns, and mountain geraniums to be gathered; muscadines to be eaten; finally, luncheon to be taken in a green river-nook, with the half-obscured sunshine lying on the breast of the current as it sweeps by. “How glad I am that we have left the Springs behind!” says Sylvia. “How delightful it is to be traveling again! Would it not be pleasant to prolong this gypsy life indefinitely?” “Very pleasant,” says Charley. “There might be worse things than to ‘ride, ride, forever ride,’ as the crazy lover in Browning’s poem wanted to do. There might also be worse things than resting on the rocks in the shade, with sandwiches to eat and claret to drink.” “And the French Broad before one’s eyes!” The pleasant hour ends, as all pleasant hours do, however. We start again, and, traveling leisurely, reach Alexander’s at sunset. This place looks pastoral in its loveliness as we approach—the embowered house lying in the arms of encircling hills, the glassy river in front painted with sunset hues, two figures on the bridge, and a riding-party winding along the road. We discover, when we approach, that the figures on the bridge are those of Mrs. Cardigan and Eric. They cross the road as we draw up before the gate. “You are late,” says the latter. “What has delayed you?” “Oh—every thing!” replies Aunt Markham. “Storms, floods, torrents running into the carriage and nearly sweeping it away—Eric, you need _never_ ask me to come to this country again, until there is a railroad.” “You may be sure that I never will,” says Eric, laughing. We spend three or four days at Alexander’s—delightful days in which we walk and ride, climb the hills, and go out boating on the river. Gray rocks, rushing water, green boughs drooping—these things, in varied combinations, frame the idle, golden hours. The sound of the stream becomes like the voice of a familiar friend in our ears— we are almost sorry when the day arrives for us to gather together what Eric calls our “traps,” and set forth on our travels again. CHAPTER X. “What now to me the jars of life, Its petty cares, its harder throes? The hills are free from toil and strife, And clasp me in their deep repose.” “Now,” says Eric, “who is ready for the ascent of the Black Mountain?”