warmth, yet with a stimulating quality in the air unlike the languid heat we left below, a cloudless sky, a flood of sunshine, a sparkling mist draping the distant azure mountains-this is the aspect with which Buncombe greets the strangers within her borders when they open their windows the next morning.

These windows look down on the Main Street, but there is room and to spare in Asheville, so we are not hedged in by buildings. Immediately in front is an open space through which we look at the green hills on

⚫ ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by D. APPLETON & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

which the town is built, rising with gentle, undulating swell in every direction, while afar lie the blue mountains, height overtopping height, peak rising behind peak, graceful lines blending, through the gaps more remote ranges to be seen lying so pale and faint on the horizon that it is almost impossible to tell where mountains end and sky be

gins. It is only a glimpse of the beauty which is in store for us, yet we are

iancy about the scene which is almost startling. We were not prepared for such clear, exquisite colors colors that would thrill an artist's inmost soul-such emerald greenness, such heavenly blueness, such diamond-like brightness of atmosphere.

"It is a country of which to dream!" cries Sylvia, clasping her hands. "Why have we never come here before? Why have we gone everywhere else, and neglected this Arcadia lying at our very door?"

"In order that we might be fitted to appreciate it when we did come," I reply. "We are now able to compare it- unbiased by any spell of earthly association-with much more famous regions, and to declare that it surpasses them all."

Surpasses them!-I should think so, indeed! Have you ever seen anywhere else such tints as those on the mountains yonder? Come! I see a piazza-let us go out on it. One cannot have too much of this air. It is like an elixir of life."

We go out on the piazza. The air is indeed like an elixir in its buoyancy and lightness. Birds are singing in the leafy depths of the trees that droop before the hotel, people are passing up and down the streetamong them we presently recognize Eric, walking with a more elastic step than is customary with him in the low-country. Macgregor's foot is plainly on his native heath.

you in the parlor in five minutes."

In five minutes we meet in that apartment. Aunt Markham has declined to rise for breakfast, and reports that she is aching in every limb from the trying passage of Swannanoa Gap. "I don't know when I shall recover," she says, solemnly. Charley is always incorrigibly lazy, therefore it follows that we go in to breakfast attended by Eric alone.

It is the height of the season for tourists, and we hear-in fact, we heard before we crossed the mountains-that every house of entertainment in Asheville is crowded. The "Eagle " "demurred about receiving us, but Eric's influence carried our point. This morning we see that the hotel is full to overflowing. As we eat our breakfast leisurely, we criticise the parties that come and go, and are edified by a great deal of fashion. After a while Charley appears, and drops into a seat by Sylvia.

"I see no signs of the linen blouse, the alpenstock, or the thick boots," he says, regarding her pretty toilet with evident appreciation. "Are we going to resign the rôle of explorers, and subside into ordinary summer idlers?"

"I have not the faintest idea what you mean to do," she replies, "but, judging by the manner in which you begin the campaign, I should think you were likely to be more of a summer idler than any thing else. As for the rest of us, we have arranged our plan of action for the day. After breakfast we are going to devote ourselves to seeing Asheville and the French Broad. This afternoon we shall walk to-to-what is the name of the place, Eric?"

"Beaucatcher," answers Eric.

"And to-night let us go to Elk Mountain," says Charley, meekly. "It is only

"No, to-night we are going to what is the name of that place, Eric?"

'Battery Porter," says Eric.

"Yes, and then to-morrow we are going to MacSomebody's Hill-Eric says it commands the finest view east of the Mississippi -and the day after to Elk Mountain, and the day after that-"

But the expression of Charley's face is so full of genuine consternation that I interpose.

"Pray spare us, Sylvia. We are not making the tour of Europe after the manner of Brown, Jones, and Robinson-the greatest amount of sight-seeing to be accomplished in the smallest deal of time. We are summer idlers, and we do not mean to exhaust ourselves by making a business of pleasure. Don't let us be tied down to a programme. Let us see all these beautiful places in the manner and at the time that seems to us best."

"Hear! hear!" says Charley, gratefully -but Sylvia regards me with disapprobation.

"We are not likely to see very much if the manner and the time are left to some of the party," she remarks.

"May I be allowed to suggest riding or driving, instead of walking?" says Charley. "Asheville is a town of magnificent distances-every place is a mile at least from every other place-and the French Broad, which you speak of seeing, is a mile from them all."

"What are miles in this climate?" asks Sylvia, loftily.

After breakfast we set forth to discover what miles are in this climate, and we find them quite as long as those to which we have been accustomed. Charley is right. Asheville is a place of magnificent distances, and if it is ever built up within its corporate limits, it will be the metropolis which its inhabitants fondly hope to see it. Yet as we stroll around and about (or, to speak more correctly, up and down the streets), we decide that one could hardly under any circumstances wish it other than it is-less a town than a collection of country-seats scattered irregularly and picturesquely over the innumerable hills. There is no point from which the eye does not command a great expanse of country and mountain-ranges overtopped by mountain-ranges, besides the most charming bits of foreground landscape. As a rule, I dislike com. parisons in scenery-especially comparisons which introduce Switzerland—but it is impossible to refrain from saying that in general effect Asheville reminds one of a Swiss town. The green heights over which the gabled houses are scattered, the roads winding away to the breezy uplands, the air of brightness and cleanliness, the winsome glades and valleys, and the frame of distant mountains-so soft, so graceful, so heavenly fair, that it is impossible to wish their violet outlines transformed to the dazzling majesty of the pure, awful Alpine peaks.

Now," says Eric, as with much expenditure of breath we gain the top of the beau+iful hill on which the Catholic church

town-" you can see how Asheville is situated. You perceive that the hills on which it is built rise up from the valleys of the French Broad and Swannanoa-"

"How can we perceive it?" demands Sylvia. "Neither the French Broad nor the Swannanoa is visible. It is a matter of faith, not sight, so far as they are concerned. I see the hills and they are astonishingly green."

"West of the Blue Ridge the famous blue grass grows which makes Western North Carolina one of the finest grazing regions in the world," says Charley, who is seated in the church-door, fanning himself with his straw hat. He utters this item of information with an air which seems to say that Eric shall not monopolize all the honors of ciceroneship.

"And what are those ?-and those?-and

those?" asks Sylvia, indicating various peaks in the beautiful mountain panorama spread toward the south and west.

"Those at which you are looking," says Eric, "belong to the range of the Cold Mountain-and that most prominent peak is Pisgah. It is the highest mountain to be seen from this point, and its shape and height make it a landmark through all the country south of the Black."

We can well credit this, looking at Pisgah with admiring eyes. It lifts its head boldly, this commanding pyramid, from among a number of lesser peaks, the lines of which recede away on each side until they lie like azure clouds on the far horizon.

"From Beaucatcher, yonder," says Eric, pointing to a bold hill-the last of a spur running down from the Black-which bounds the prospect on the east, "there is a most extensive view. One hundred and eighty peaks are said to be in sight. I never counted them-but I can believe it."

"Let us go there at once," says Sylvia. A faint groan proceeds from Charley in the rear.

"Not this morning," I say. there for the sunset. the French Broad."

"Let us go

Now we are bound to

Charley groans again-evidently this is not much of an improvement in Beaucatcher but he rises and we descend the hill. A steep street runs along its base. We climb this for some distance, and presently find ourselves in a shady lane, with a stretch of meadow-land before us, and several countryseats in sight.

"What a charming place!" says Sylvia, sitting down on the roots of a great oak by the road-side to rest. "We are in the country, and yet not in the country. Alice, had you any idea that Asheville would be like this?"

"Not the least," I answer, looking beyond green meadows and wooded hills to the shadows moving across the great shoulders of the distant mountains.

"How confidently one draws a mental picture of a place and accepts it for reality!" Sylvia goes on, tracing figures in the sand with the point of her parasol. "I fancied we should find an ordinary village-rather pretty, perhaps but chiefly remarkable for

being twenty-two hundred feet above the sea-"

"Twenty-two hundred and fifty," says Charley. "The people insist on having the credit of every fraction."

"Good as a health - resort, no doubt," Sylvia proceeds, "but full of the depressing village air and village stagnation one knows so well. Instead, I look round, and what do I see?"

"Mountains," says Eric, literally.

"A bright little spa," the young lady announces, emphatically, which only needs fashion to make it an American Baden."

"I hope it may be a long time before fashion finds it," says Eric, dryly.

"Then you must hope that it may be a long time before there is a railroad," I say. "One cannot expect to keep Fashion out when once steam has opened the way for her capricious majesty."

"The place, even now," says Charley, might be a great summer-resort-counting its visitors by thousands, instead of by hundreds-if it would arouse to a sense of its own interest, and provide a proper place to lodge them.* A modern hotel, with fine grounds-"

"And a band of music," says Sylvia.

"Of course a band of music, a good table, and good servants, would realize your American Baden in short order."

"You are fine Arcadians," I remark, severely, "to plan deliberately the destruction of all you profess to admire. If I had Mr. Ruskin's gift of invective, I would wither you with my indignation. Not having it, I exult in the fact that you can neither build your hotel, nor bring your bands of music and army of tourists."

"The railway will bring them, however," says Sylvia, beginning to hum a Strauss waltz.

At this moment a carriage appears driving along the lane. It is a small basket-phaeton, drawn by a large horse, instead of a pony, and contains a lady and a gentleman. The wheels roll smoothly and easily over the shadow - dappled road; the lady holds her fringed parasol with coquettish grace; the sound of their gay voices floats to us. We begin to walk on, but Sylvia looks round. "After all, driving is pleasanter than walking," she says.

"Are you tired?" says Charley. "Take my arm."

Before she can accept or decline this civility, an exclamation is heard from the phaeton. "Ciel!" cries a voice with a French accent, "is not that Sylvia Norwood? I am sure it must be!-Victor, stop-stop a moment!"

"But you are not sure, Adèle," a man's voice remonstrates.

"I must make sure," replies the other, eagerly.

Then the tall horse is induced to stop, and we look at Sylvia. She turns toward the phaeton, and, as the lady springs lightly to the ground, advances, and holds out her hand. "You are Adèle Dupont," she says. "I am very glad to meet you."

*Since this party were in Asheville, a "proper place" has been provided.

"It is it is herself!" cries Miss Dupont, rushing forward, and embracing her with effusion.

In the effort to refrain from smilingknowing that the eyes of the gentleman in the phaeton are upon us-we all look so grave that one might suppose something very sad to be occurring. In reality I am much amused. I have heard of Miss Dupont-a creole, from New Orleans, with whom Sylvia was at school-and I know that the encounter is not altogether agreeable to the latter. She puts what is popularly known as "a good face" on the matter, however, and, when the embraces and kisses subside, says: "How singular that we should meet here, Adèle! Where do you come from?"

"From the Warm Springs," answers Adèle. "We reached there a month ago, and I should have been content to stay until it was time to go back to New Orleans, but some of our party wanted to travel. We arrived here day before yesterday. We are going-oh, everywhere! And you?"

"I reached here with a party, last night. The length of our stay is indefinite-our plans are indefinite, also. Here is my sister, let me introduce you."

Miss Dupont is introduced to me, Eric is presented, also Charley. She says something graceful and flattering to each of us-being, evidently, one of the persons whose ease and readiness, especially in the line of compliments, make less-favored people feel stiff and awkward. Then she turns to Sylvia:

"Now that you have made me acquainted with your sister and cousins," she says, "I must introduce my brother to you.-Victor, can you leave the horse for a few minutes?"

Victor does so readily enough. He is a slender, dark-eyed man, with a great deal of French grace in his manner. He is thirty, perhaps, and looks interesting and artistic. I see Charley (who is neither dark-eyed, interesting, nor artistic) regard him with evident disfavor. Eric is more cordial, and, while he and Sylvia talk to the stranger, Miss Dupont informs me, in a dramatic aside, that he is a charming musician, that he has been a gallant soldier, and that "we"-the Dupont family understood-are most proud of and devoted to him.

"But where are you all going?" she asks, suddenly turning her attention from me to Charley, in a manner for which I am not entirely unprepared. "Victor and I have been driving aimlessly. Is there any special place to go to? Is there any particular thing to be seen?"

Now, Adèle Dupont is by no means a very pretty woman, but she is a woman who makes the best of her personal appearance, and who has a grace and style that would redeem ugliness itself. She is attractive and beguiling. She knows it, and Charley knows it, too.

"There are several places," he replies. "Have you been to Beaucatcher? Have you driven out to the Swannanoa-or the French Broad?"

"We came up the French Broad, you know. As for Beaucatcher-no, I have not seen it, nor the Swannanoa."

"You had better wait until this afternoon, and join our party," says Eric, goodnaturedly. "We are going there to see the sunset."

66

Yes, of course we will wait," says Miss Dupont, graciously. "If Victor and I went alone, we should not know one mountain from another; but no doubt you "-the beguiling eyes again appeal to Charley-"know the names of them all."

"Not quite," replies Charley, modestlyhe really does not know a single mountain besides Pisgah, which, from its shape, is unmistakable-" but I will do my best to enlighten you."

With this arrangement we separate. The Duponts return to their phaeton. We continue our walk, discussing them the whilenot altogether in a spirit of charity.

"Adèle Dupont is delightful until you find that she is insincere," says Sylvia, when Charley remarks that she is very agreeable.

"A little insincerity in a woman does not matter," says that lax young moralist, "if the result is good."

casm.

"Indeed!" says Sylvia, in a tone of sar"How edifying it is to the feeble feminine intellect to hear masculine opinions! If insincerity is not objectionable in a woman, what do you consider it in a man?"

"Almost as contemptible as affectation," Mr. Kenyon replies; "and, unless I am greatly mistaken, Monsieur Victor Dupont is a very good example of the last."

Sylvia smiles scornfully.

"I have never seen an Anglo-Saxon man," she says, "who did not consider a foreigner, or anybody with foreign manners, affected. Such judgments are-are-"

"Pray don't hesitate to say what they are," remarks Charley, quietly, as she hesitates.

"Are generally the result of prejudice, jealousy, or provincial ignorance," she goes on, impetuously, with the color mounting to her cheeks.

Prejudice, jealousy, provincial ignorance!" repeats Charley, meditatively. "Under which head does my judgment come, I wonder? Prejudice?-why should I be prejudiced? Jealousy?-of whom should I be jealous? Provincial ignorance?—I am afraid I must plead guilty on that score. I have never been in New Orleans."

"You have been in Paris, however," I observe, "and therefore ought to be familiar with French manners."

"And Miss Dupont's are very good," he says, with the air of one making a deduction.

I give the matter up, and walk on with Eric, leaving Sylvia and Charley to fight their battle alone. We hear them disputing behind us.

"A person may be enthusiastic and effusive without being affected," Sylvia declares. "With an impressionable temperament, feelings are so easily effaced that persons of that kind are often unjustly accused of insincerity," Charley says.

Eric and I look at each other and smile.

We do not go to the French Broad. An avenue which is very creditable to the town has been opened toward it, and along this we walk for some distance, admiring at every step the green landscape around us and the splendid heights far away; but our pedestrian powers are exhausted before we reach the river. Wiser with regard to Asheville distances, and saddened by the necessity of toiling over the cobble-stones which pave the streets, we return to the hotel.

As we approach the door, we are astonished to see a stout lady in the act of being assisted from the small phaeton with which we have already made acquaintance, by a slender, graceful gentleman.

"There is Mr. Dupont!" says Sylvia, looking at the latter.

"There is Aunt Markham!" I exclaim, looking at the former.

"Aunt Markham!" repeats Charley. "By Jove, so it is! What do you suppose she has been doing?"

'Driving with Mr. Dupont, apparently," says Eric, whom nothing surprises.

We find that this conjecture is correct. When we come up, Aunt Markham receives us benignly.

"Mr. Dupont, whom I believe you have met," she says-we bow, and Mr. Dupont bows-" has been kindly driving me around Asheville a little. It is really a very pretty place-only exceedingly scattered. I should dislike to be obliged to walk very much here. You must all be dreadfully tired."

"I am more vexed than tired," says Sylvia, " for we did not reach the French Broad after all-it is too far away."

"If you would like to see that river, will

mire uncommon things," says Sylvia, "when the things that are best worth admiring in the world are all of them common. Mr. Dupont fully agrees with me that this is the most beautiful country in America."

"I wonder if he has seen them all?" says Charley.

"We were so engrossed," Sylvia proceeds, ignoring this remark, "that we drove on, forgetting all about time and distance, until after a while we reached some bars, where we had been directed to turn of'-or, rather, to turn in. Mr. Dupont let them down, and from a house across the road several children came rushing to mind the gap while we went to the spring. The road into which we turned led us past a log-cabin, in front of which two or three stout men were lazily smoking and gossiping. We asked for a tumbler-were given one of thick, green glass, and drove on. Mr. Dupont pointed out a hill on the left as the site of the hotel which was once quite a place of resort."

"I have heard of Deaver's Springs," says Aunt Markham. "The hotel was burned, I believe."

"Yes, burned and never rebuilt; but the springs are still there, with a pavilion over them. We drove down the hill at the risk of smashing the phaeton or breaking our necks-for, having come so far, of course we felt it incumbent on us to drink some of the water. As soon as I tasted it, I thought of you, auntie, and I sent Mr. Dupont back to the house to get a vessel in which we could bring some to you. He returned with the jug you have seen, and I filled it myself."

"I thank you, my dear," says Aunt Mark. ham.

"The moral of the story," says Eric, "is that this young lady was going to see the French Broad, and the only glimpse of the river to be obtained between Asheville and Deaver's Springs is what you see while crossing it."

"The moral of the story is that the best philosophy in life is to enjoy all that you can, when you can," says Sylvia, gayly.

MRS. BASIL RECONNOITRES.

MRS. BASIL in her shabby little carriage, drawn by one shabby horse in shabby harness, and driven by old Thurston in a shabby suit, went on her way funereally. When one compared this sorry turnout with the goodly equipage in which this lady used to raise the dust of Middleborough before the war, one could understand why her heart was set on Mrs. Stargold's money. But the dogs barked after her just the same as in days gone by, and in the course of time she arrived at the house Mrs. Stargold had rented.

* ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by D. APPLETON & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

"Very glad to see you, cousin. You will excuse my officiousness in assuming the ser vant's place; but I feared the bell might disturb Cousin Elizabeth, who is trying to sleep. Walk in, please," she added, throwing open the parlor-door with an air of proprietorship most exasperating to Mrs. Basil.

But Mrs. Basil was not to be overawed by Jane Ruffner. She took in the room with all its appointments at a single glance, and would not appear impressed by any thing she

saw.

"We have a fine situation here," said Miss Ruffner, opening a window.

"I am glad that you are pleased," said Mrs. Basil, with chilling indifference. "It is not so high, however, as Basilwood, and it is rather remote."

"Remote from Basilwood, yes," Miss Ruffner assented, with a peculiar smile Mrs. Basil did not like; "but, in the present state of Cousin Elizabeth's health, seclusion is desirable."

Mrs. Basil drew herself up stiffly. Had not Arthur and herself quite as distinct claims upon Mrs. Stargold as these Ruffners? "The distance is not worth considering when one rides," said she, as grandly as though her poor little old carriage were the best in the land; "and Arthur will ride over in a day or two to call. I had hoped to see Cousin Elizabeth this afternoon, and am sorry to be denied." She did not believe now that Mrs. Stargold was trying to sleep.

Miss Ruffner coughed, by which she seemed to express that it was to be expected that Mrs. Basil would selfishly annoy poor Cousin Elizabeth with her attentions.

"Do the physicians consider her case particularly serious?" Mrs. Basil asked.

"Doctors are not infallible, you know," replied Miss Ruffner, evasively. "She suffers extremely from nervous prostration, and it is not thought advisable that she should see company. I seldom see her myself, except when she wishes me to read to her. Mother seems to be indispensable to her comfort; and Sam relieves her of all care about business."

"I should think that Sam must find it rather inconvenient neglecting his planting interests," remarked Mrs. Basil, dryly. "Cotton is not so easily made, nowadays."

"No, indeed," Miss Ruffner assented; "but Sam is not selfish; he can give up his interests for Cousin Elizabeth's."

"Oh, I dare say he can afford to do so," said Mrs. Basil, with libelous emphasis. "Such disinterestedness should meet its reward."

"Sam looks for no reward but the approval of his own conscience," said Miss Ruffner, with virtuous calm.

"The pres

"I don't believe it will result seriously," said Mrs. Basil, with evident displeasure. "She hasn't yet had time to recover from the shock; but Cousin Elizabeth is too sensible a woman to fall a victim to superstition."

"Oh, we hope for the best," said Miss Ruffner, resignedly. "But then, you know, we must humor her a little. It really is a sort of amusement to her, I suppose, to arrange her papers and all that; and then she is naturally jealous of any appearance of interference. Oh, now that I think of it, you remember Basil Redmond, do you not?"

Mrs. Basil heard the name with an involuntary start. She had thought Basil Redmond dead, or forever passed out of her world. What had he to do with what they were talking of, she wondered. But, recovering herself, she answered, calmly:

"Certainly, I remember him."

Miss Ruffner smiled; she knew that Mrs. Basil had never been fond of the judge's ward.

Perhaps," said she, with furtive irony, "you may be pleased to know that you will have an opportunity to renew acquaintance with him. A particular friend of Mrs. Stargold's has written her to announce his coming at an early day. You know he is now a promising young lawyer somewhere in California; I forget the name of the place."

No, Mrs. Basil did not know it; but she saw no necessity to confess her ignorance.

"I shall be happy to meet him again," she said. It would be very like meeting the ghost of the past; and yet, twelve years absence must, of course, have obliterated the old antagonism with which the unruly boy had regarded her; and as for herself, she scorned to bear malice.

"I thought you could not have forgotten him," Miss Ruffner remarked, blandly. “As a youth I know he was no favorite of yours; and we more easily forget those we like than those we dislike."

This Rochefoucauld-like sentiment Mrs. Basil thought proper to ignore. "I am rejoiced to hear a good report of him; of course I naturally feel an interest in his success as a relative of my husband's. May I ask what brings him to Middleborough ?"

'Indeed," said Miss Ruffner, "I don't know; I only know that he brings letters of introduction from Cousin Elizabeth's friend."

"I had lost sight of him," said Mrs. Basil; "through his own fault entirely. But I shall welcome him back with pleasure, and Miss Basil, I'm sure, will welcome him as gladly as I."

"His aunt, isn't she? What a treasure you have in her!"

"No; she is not his aunt. Mrs. Redmond,