“I am sure there is no reason, save your own choice, why you should ever be alone,” says Mr. Lanier, gallantly. “Mark my words, Sylvia,” I say, aside, “Mrs. Cardigan has invited herself to accompany us to the Black—she will invite herself to accompany us still farther if we do not take care.” “Well, why not?” asks Sylvia, carelessly. “She is rather entertaining. Are you afraid for Eric’s peace of mind?” “Are _you_ not afraid for Ralph Lanier’s allegiance?” She laughs. “Not I. More attractive women than Mrs. Cardigan have tried to shake that—and failed.” I make no remark on this confident statement, but I think that there is a limit to the perseverance of most men, and that a man so persistently snubbed as Ralph Lanier might be excused for finding a balm for his feelings in the attentions of so charming a woman as Mrs. Cardigan. The next morning we start on our expedition. The day is bright with the golden brightness of September, and has that serene charm of atmosphere which makes the autumn a season of delight. Obedient to orders, we load ourselves with wraps of all kinds, but we cannot imagine that we shall find need for half of them. Neither can we imagine that under any possible circumstances our appetites will grow large enough to consume the amount of provisions with which Eric fills the wagon. “I think Mr. Markham must be preparing for a more extensive trip than we know of,” says Mrs. Cardigan, with a laugh. “Eric, do you mean to drive the phaeton?” I ask. “Oh, pray do, Mr. Markham!” cries Mrs. Cardigan eagerly. “I am so fond of sitting on the front seat, where I can watch the horses—and so fond of driving, too, when there is a gentleman by to take the reins if any thing should happen.” “That won’t do!” says Eric, and he smiles as he looks at the speaker, who stands on the steps in her becoming costume and coquettish hat. “If you take the reins, you must be prepared to take the consequences also.” “I’ll take any thing whatever, if you will only let me drive those beautiful horses,” she says, gayly. Sylvia rides, as usual; but Mr. Lanier’s horse is unluckily lame, so he is obliged to leave it behind and accept a seat in the phaeton. This necessity depresses his spirits, but Charley’s are correspondingly high, and he canters off by Sylvia’s side with an air not calculated to remove his rival’s depression. With many last injunctions from Aunt Markham not to break our necks, and to be sure and come back on the third day, we finally drive off. Our way out of Asheville lies toward the Swannanoa, and when we reach that stream we follow the stage-road immediately along its bank. The valley spreads fair and green around us, morning lights and shades are on the hills, a tender yet radiant haze drapes the far blue mountains, the river flows swiftly by, full of glancing brightness. “This is the road which leads to Swannanoa Gap,” says Ralph Lanier. “Do we follow it far?”