n his face. After
a few minutes he appealed to me, and his face was sorely troubled.

"How can one go to her? It seems to me sheerest mockery to speak of
patience and submission to a wild young thing from whom all this
is suddenly snatched forever--and this was very life to her, too,
remember."

Then he sprang up and we rode hard for an hour, till we came to the
mouth of the canyon. Here the trail grew difficult and we came to a
walk. As we went down into the cool depths the spirit of the canyon came
to meet us and took The Pilot in its grip. He rode in front, feasting
his eyes on all the wonders in that storehouse of beauty. Trees of many
kinds deepened the shadows of the canyon. Over us waved the big elms
that grew up here and there out of the bottom, and around their feet
clustered low cedars and hemlocks and balsams, while the sturdy, rugged
oaks and delicate, trembling poplars clung to the rocky sides and
clambered up and out to the canyon's sunny lips. Back of all, the great
black rocks, decked with mossy bits and clinging things, glistened cool
and moist between the parting trees. From many an oozy nook the dainty
clematis and columbine shook out their bells, and, lower down, from
beds of many-colored moss the late wind-flower and maiden-hair and tiny
violet lifted up brave, sweet faces. And through the canyon the Little
Swan sang its song to rocks and flowers and overhanging trees, a song
of many tones, deep-booming where it took its first sheer plunge,
gay-chattering where it threw itself down the ragged rocks, and
soft-murmuring where it lingered about the roots of the loving,
listening elms. A cool, sweet, soothing place it was, with all its
shades and sounds and silences, and, lest it should be sad to any, the
sharp, quick sunbeams danced and laughed down through all its leaves
upon mosses, flowers and rocks. No wonder that The Pilot, drawing a deep
breath as he touched the prairie sod again, said:

"That does me good. It is better at times even than the sunny hills.
This was Gwen's best spot."

I saw that the canyon had done its work with him. His face was strong
and calm as the hills on a summer morning, and with this face he looked
in upon Gwen. It was one of her bad days and one of her bad moods, but
like a summer breeze he burst into the little room.

"Oh, Gwen!" he cried, without a word of greeting, much less of
Commiseration, "we have had such a ride!" And he spread out the sunlit,
round-topped