“I see you have your own purvisions,” she says, “and I thought you might mean to make your supper off’en ’em. Some folks does.” “That is the reason why some folks nearly starve on the top of the mountain,” says Sylvia, with the air of one who knows all about such matters. “We don’t mean to touch those provisions until we are on the highest peak of the Black.” “Here is something that we can touch, however,” says Mrs. Cardigan, opening a basket of grapes. “And now let us go out for a walk.” The entire sky is flushed with a radiance which shows that the hidden sunset must be of unusual glory, when we leave the house and, crossing the neglected yard, take our way to the stream that sings over its rocks not more than twenty yards distant. We enter a forest road arched with shade, but, although we are not more than two steps from the creek, we can only obtain glimpses of its flashing beauty, so dense is the growth along its banks. At length we hear such a tumult of falling water that we feel sure something specially worth seeing is hidden from our sight, and, nerved to desperation, plunge recklessly into the thicket. Only Mrs. Cardigan holds back and suggests snakes—but Sylvia laughs. “You are quite as likely to meet a snake where you are as here,” she says. “You can’t possibly guard against them, so the best thing to do is to go where you like without thinking of them.” [Illustration: “Mrs. Cardigan suggests snakes.”] Encouraged by this philosophical view of things, Mrs. Cardigan follows, and we find ourselves in one of those glens of which Eric has spoken. Large bowlders strew the channel of the stream, over and around which, in foaming rapids and cascades, the limpid water frets and whirls. A wilderness of ivy and rhododendron, interspersed with tapering pines and stately firs, makes a wall of green along the banks, and, as we spring from rock to rock until we find ourselves in the middle of the current, we agree that, for wild and romantic loveliness, we have scarcely seen this surpassed. “Is it not strange,” says Sylvia, “that the higher one goes in these mountains, the more luxuriant the forest-growth becomes? Look at that hill-side! It is like a tropical jungle.” “Oh, to be here when the rhododendron is in bloom!” cries Mrs. Cardigan, clasping her hands; and indeed, everywhere that one turns, the broad, polished leaves of this “victor-wreath” of the mountains meet the glance. We sit on the rocks, enthroned like mermaids, with the brawling stream around us, the rich, green hillside towering in front, the absolute solitude of virgin Nature in every sight and sound. We do not observe that the sunset radiance fades from the patch of sky immediately over our heads, and the soft gray tints of twilight begin to steal over the scene, until steps and voices on the hidden road rouse us to a realization that our companions are in search of us. “Hush! Not a word!” whispers Mrs. Cardigan. “Let us see if they can find us.”