“For about twelve miles,” Eric answers. “As far as Alexander’s.” “I thought we left Alexander’s on the French Broad,” says Mrs. Cardigan, who is driving, and does it—as she does every thing—with grace and skill. “This is another Alexander’s—and a very different one,” says Eric. The road, which for twelve miles leads directly up the valley of the Swannanoa, is uniformly good. We ford the river several times, and see it in all phases of its capricious loveliness, and with every possible background—now level farm-lands and purple hills, then a beautiful pass dark with overhanging shade, again a picturesque mill with the water flashing over its dam in a sheet of silver, or mountains rising behind mountains with patches of shadow on their deep gorges and wooded sides. Through all these varying scenes the river takes its way with sweet impetuosity, swirling in rapids, flowing still and deep between its banks, or rippling gayly over stony shallows. “‘Swannanoa! well they named thee In the mellow Indian tongue, “Beautiful” thou art most truly, And right worthy to be sung,’” says Mr. Lanier, who has found this verse on the back of a photograph. “It is tame here, compared to what it is as it comes down the Black Mountain,” says Eric. “Some glens on the stream there I have never seen surpassed for wildness and beauty.” “Shall _we_ see them?” asks Mrs. Cardigan. “If you like, and if you are not afraid of rattlesnakes, which abound in such places. Our course lies directly to the head-waters of the river.” “Great place for trout-fishing, isn’t it?” asks Mr. Lanier. “Splendid place,” responds Eric. “You would suspect me of exaggeration if I were to say how many speckled trout I have caught there in a day.” “Oh, how delightful!” cries Mrs. Cardigan. “May I catch some, too, please? I am devoted to fishing.” Both gentlemen laugh at this. “Are you prepared to go into the stream and wade?” they ask. “That is the way to fish for mountain trout. The growth along the banks is so dense that no other mode answers.” “If you had given me warning, I should have brought a wading costume along,” she says; “but at present I am not provided for any thing of that kind.” On we go, bowling lightly and easily over the road along which the heavy stage jolts and bumps. “This is the perfection of traveling!” cries Mrs. Cardigan. The spirited horses, which are the pride and delight of Eric’s heart, do not need a touch of the whip as they move forward in that long, swinging trot which seems pleasure instead of labor to thoroughbreds. All around us lies the brightness of the mellow day, and the varied glory of the mountain landscape. Great hills stand bathed in sunshine or dappled with shade, while at their feet are coves in which the broad, low farmhouses stand, with sunny meadows and fields of waving corn. At noon we reach Alexander’s, where we stop for dinner and rest two or three hours during the heat of the day.