To see the mountains of Virginia in October, and not grow extravagant, is one of those things which rank with the discovery of perpetual motion—­an impossibility.

Would you have strength and rude might?  The oak is, yonder, battered by a thousand storms, and covered with the rings of forgotten centuries.  Splendor?  The mountain banners of the crimson dogwood, red maple, yellow hickory and chestnut flout the sky—­as though all the nations of the world had met in one great federation underneath the azure dome not built with hands, and clashed together there the variegated banners which once led them to war—­now beckoning in with waving silken folds the thousand years of peace!  Would you have beauty, and a tender delicacy of outline and fine coloring?  Here is that too; for over all,—­over the splendid emperors and humble princes, and the red, and blue, and gold, of oak, and hickory, and maple, droops that magical veil whereof we spoke—­that delicate witchery, which lies upon the gorgeous picture like a spell, melting the headlands into distant figures, beckoning and smiling, making the colors of the leaves more delicate and tender—­turning the autumn mountains into a fairy land of unimagined splendor and delight!

Extravagance is moderation looking upon such a picture.

Such a picture was unrolled before the four individuals who now took their way toward the fine hill to the west of the Bower of Nature, and they enjoyed its beauty, and felt fresher and purer for the sight.

“Isn’t it splendid!” cried Fanny.

“Oh, yes!” Redbud said, gazing delightedly at the trees and the sky.

“Talk about the lowland,” said Ralph, with patriotic scorn; “I tell you, my heart’s delight, that there is nothing, anywhere below, to compare with this.”

“Not at Richmond?—­but permit me first to ask if your observation was addressed to me, sir?” said Miss Fanny, stopping.

“Certainly it was, my own,”

“I am not your own.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, and I never will be!”

“Wait till you are asked!” replied Ralph, laughing triumphantly at this retort.

“Hum!” exclaimed Fanny.

“But you asked about Richmond, did you not, my beauty?”

“Ridiculous!” cried Fanny, laughing; “well, yes, I did.”

“A pretty sort of a place,” Ralph replied; “but not comparable to Winchester.”

“Indeed—­I thought differently.”

“That’s not to the purpose—­you are no judge of cities.”

“Hum!  I suppose you are.”

“Of course!”

“A judge of everything?”

“Nearly—­among other things, I judge that if you continue to look at me, and don’t mind where you are walking, Miss Fanny, your handsome feet will carry you into that stream!”

There was much good sense in these words; and Fanny immediately took the advice which had been proffered—­that is to say, she turned her eye away from the bantering lips of her companion, and measured the stream which they were approaching.