“O Mr. Burnet,” cries Sylvia, “shall we see a bear?” “’Tain’t very likely,” answers Mr. Burnet, glancing round with a smile, “but you’ll see the tracks of one or two, p’r’aps. That’ll be better than nothin’, won’t it?” “Very much better than nothing; but I want desperately to see a bear itself.” “I kin show you a bear-trap after a while, without takin’ you very fur from the road,” says the hunter. “Do you catch bears in traps?” asks Sylvia. “Tell me all about it.” It is to be supposed that Mr. Burnet complies with this request—at least we hear his voice mingling with Sylvia’s blithe tones as the _cortège_ winds deeper and deeper into the still, beautiful forest. Sylvia’s mule, as soon as we start, declines on any account to remain in the rear of the party—or indeed anywhere but in the front rank, next to the pack-horse. On such an expedition as this people laugh at things that seem very trivial in repetition, and we make the echoes ring with our mirth as this small but determined animal pushes resolutely by everyone else and carries its protesting rider to the van. “I have heard of the obstinacy of mules,” she says, tugging fruitlessly at the rein, “but I _never_ realized before what it is! I can make no impression whatever on this creature. He goes exactly where he likes, without the slightest regard to my wishes. Sure-footed? Yes—he picks the best footing, with profound indifference as to whether I am scraped against trees, or pulled off by branches, or any thing else. Has a mule’s mouth got no feeling? I’m sure I have pulled on this bit till my arm aches.” [Illustration: “‘I have heard of the obstinacy of mules.’”] “I wish I had a sketch of you, Sylvia!” says Rupert, between his fits of laughter. “By George! you are a comical sight—you and your mule.” “You are very ill-bred,” says Sylvia, “and I am going to devote myself to Mr. Burnet.” The ascent is very gradual and very slow. We are mounting all the time, but the zigzag path spares us any thing very much on the perpendicular order. Now and then we feel inclined to cling to the manes of our horses as we feel the saddles slipping backward at some steep ascent—but on the whole, the terrible accounts that we have heard of the way are by no means verified. “We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles,” says Eric. “Then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and most of it is steady climbing. We shall not reach the Dome until three o’clock at earliest.” “And shall we have nothing to eat until then?” asks Rupert, dismayed. “Nothing,” is the disheartening answer. “What a big mountain this must be!” says Mrs. Cardigan.