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g years! long years! and now, I well know why
 Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.
 First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still
 Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best
 In me and in my art is thine:--Me-seems
 Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,
 My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams,
 I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.

FOOTNOTE:

[43] By permission of the author, and publishers, the Cassell
Publishing Co., N. Y.

"CHRISTIAN REID."

FRANCES C. TIERNAN.

MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a
daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina,
who was killed in the battle of Manassas. Her best known book, "The
Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains
of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.

WORKS.

 Valerie Aylmer.
 Mabel Lee.
 Nina's Atonement.
 Carmen's Inheritance.
 Hearts and Hands.
 Land of the Sky.
 Heart of Steel.
 Summer Idyl.
 Roslyn's Fortune.
 Morton House.
 Ebb Tide.
 Daughter of Bohemia.
 A Gentle Belle.
 A Question of Honor.
 After Many Days.
 Bonny Kate.
 Armine.
 Miss Churchill.
 Land of the Sun (1895).

[Illustration: ~Mt. Mitchell, N. C. Above the Clouds.~]

ASCENT OF MOUNT MITCHELL, BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA.

(_From The Land of the Sky._[44])

The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths
of the forest into which we enter--an enchanted world of far-reaching
greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the
streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping
cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a
cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not
road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the
ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one
commands a view of the entire line--of horsemen in slouched hats and
gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks
serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and
grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and
we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some
question addressed to him. . . . . . . .

"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 the most of it
is steady climbing." . . . . . .

"And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life
sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?" I ask.

"Yes, Burnett [the guide] was one of the men engaged in the search for
him. He will tell you all about it. . ."

The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant at every
step. . . . Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings
changes. We leave this varied forest behind, and enter the region of
the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name.
Above a certain line of elevation no trees are found save these
beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height and stand so
thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can
thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a
canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to
be found here--only beds of thick elastic moss, richer than the
richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. . . . Dan Burnett leads
on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the
little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open
ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which
rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnett tells us,
that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found
the first trace of the way he had taken.

"We had been searchin' from Friday to Tuesday," he says, "and on
Tuesday we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson--an old hunter
from over in Yancey--said he hadn't no doubt the professor had tried
to go down to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen
years afore, and which leads that way"--he points down into the dark
wilds below us. "Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie
till we found a track. Wilson was right--he _had_ tried to go down to
Caney Valley. We follered his trail fur about four mile, and I was one
of them what found him at last."

"He had lost his way," says Eric. "I have seen the spot--they call it
Mitchell's Falls now--where he died. A stream of considerable size
plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen
feet deep by as many wide. Into this he fell, probably at night."

"But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?" Sylvia
says, addressing Mr. Burnett.

"We brought it in a sheet slung to the top of stout poles," he
answers. "Then it were carried down to Asheville, and then brought up
again, and buried there"--he nods to the peak above us.

"In the warmth of their great friendship and admiration, people
thought that he ought to rest in the midst of the scenes he had
explored so fearlessly and loved so well," says Eric. . . . Before
long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest
is--the grave. . . . . . . .

Besides the grave, the summit is entirely bare.

The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections.
Far to the north east lies Virginia, from which the long waving line
of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making a
point of junction, near which it towers into the steep Pinnacle and
stately Graybeard--so called from the white beard which it wears when
a frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence
we overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below
spreading into azure distance, with white spots which resolve
themselves through the glasses into villages, and mountains clearly
defined. The Linville range--through which the Linville River forces
its way in a gorge of wonderful grandeur--is in full view, with a
misty cloud lying on the surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar
form of the Hawk's Bill stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue
and limitless as the ocean, the undulating plain of the more level
country extends until it melts into the sky.

As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue
Ridge, follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate
the magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest
appear a succession of cone-like peaks, and, as it sweeps around
westwardly, it divides into two great branches--one of which
terminates in the height on which we stand, while numerous spurs lead
off from its base; the other stretches southward, forming the splendid
chain of Craggy. At our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and
Mitchell, with their s

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