"That's the very thing. She's almost ill with watching night after night; so Mary,--they used to be friends at school,--has been very anxious that she should make the journey with them, for a change of scene, you know,--and Colonel Leslie has persuaded her to go." "When will they leave town?" "To-morrow. They mean to spend a few days at Trenton, and then go to the Falls. But here we are; won't you change your mind, and come in?" "No, thank you. Good night." "Good evening, then;" and waving his hand again, Wren trotted up the avenue. "Virtue never goes unrewarded," thought Morton; "if I hadn't joined the fellow, I might not have known about this journey." On the next day he discovered that they had actually gone, and that, as Wren had said, Niagara was to be the ultimatum of their tour. On the following morning, he himself took the western train, and made all speed for the Falls. CHAPTER XVIII. If folly grows romantic, I must paint it.--_Pope_. On the American side of the Niagara, a few miles below the Falls, is a deep chasm, bearing the inauspicious christening of the Devil's Hole. Near it there is--or perhaps was, for things have changed thereabouts--a path winding far down among rocks and forests, till it leads to the brink of the river. Here, darkened by the beetling cliffs and sombre forests, the Niagara surges on its way, like a compressed ocean, raging to break free. At the verge of this watery convulsion stood Holyoke and his wife, Miss Leslie, and Morton, whom they had chanced to meet that morning. "It is very fine, no doubt," said the good-natured, though very shallow Mrs. Holyoke, "but I have no mind to take cold in these dark woods. If we stay much longer, I believe I shall go mad, looking at that rushing, foaming water, and throw myself in. Come, Harry, let us go back to daylight again." "Just as you please," said the model husband, offering his arm. "Come, Edith;--why, she really seems to like it;--Edith!--she don't hear me; no wonder, in all this noise;--Edith, we are going back to the upper world. You can stay here, if you please, with Mr. Morton." But Miss Leslie chose to follow her friend; while Morton aided her up the rough path. "I have observed," he said, as they came to smoother ground, "in our excursions yesterday and to-day, that Mrs. Holyoke has not much of your liking for rocks, trees, and water. I mean, that she has no great taste for nature." "At all events, she has an eye for what is picturesque in it. She is an artist, you know, and paints in water colors extremely well." "Yes, and whenever she sees a landscape, she thinks only how it would look on paper or canvas, and judges it accordingly. That is not a genuine love of nature. One does not value a friend for good looks, or dress, or air; and so, in the same way, is not a true fondness for nature independent, to some extent at least, of effects of form, or color, or grouping?"