“Here!” says Eric’s voice. “Don’t you see that they have broken through here? We’ll find them out in the stream there.” “I see some figures—dryads and naiads, perhaps—on the rocks,” says Charley, forcing his way through the dense _chaparral_ of ivy and laurel. The dryads and naiads answer with a laugh. “Here is an excellent place if you would like another plunge-bath, Charley,” I say, pointing to a crystal pool just below the rock on which I am seated. “I wonder you ladies were not afraid of snakes,” remarks Mr. Lanier, glancing round apprehensively as he makes his appearance through the bushes and over the trailing vines. When we stroll slowly back, the cool, clear dusk has fallen. On our right the mighty peaks of the Black stand dark against the sky; immediately in front are the fantastic outlines of Craggy; overhead the moon is shining from a deep-blue sky, and the air has a freshness that is suggestive of frost. “What a different atmosphere from that of Asheville!” says Sylvia. “And if it is so cool here to-night, what will it be on the mountain to-morrow night?” [Illustration: “‘Let us see if they can find us.’”] “Cold enough to need all your wraps—and more besides,” answers Eric. We find a fire very pleasant when we return to the house. We gather around it after supper, and, with no other light than the ruddy, flickering blaze, talk until late bedtime. Eric and Charley try each to “top” the other’s stories of adventures, and, if they do not succeed in this, they at least interest and amuse their audience, while Rupert sits by, drinking in every detail with absorbed attention. “What a feast is in store for you!” says Eric, suddenly laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I luckily encountered an old acquaintance of mine this afternoon, who will be our guide to-morrow. His name is Dan Burnet, and he is one of the most famous hunters of this region. He will tell you bear-stories by the dozen.” “He shall tell them around the campfire to-morrow night,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “How delightful and picturesque!” “Since I have had no adventures with which the present party are not familiar, I shall make a diversion in the order of entertainment, and tell a ghost-story,” says Sylvia. “Attention, Rupert! I know you are almost as fond of ghosts as of bears.” We can all follow this lead, so half a dozen indifferent ghost-stories are told, and provoke more laughter than terror. Then we say good-night, and separate. We find the atmosphere of our large, unwarmed chamber very chilly, but Sylvia stoutly declines to stop up a broken window-pane. “We had better accustom ourselves to the climate,” she says. “To-morrow night we shall be much colder, without any window-panes at all.”