or a few moments. How long the silence seemed! Then,
turning, looked into the eyes that searched his so steadily and answered
simply:

"Yes, Gwen, I am quite sure!" Then, with quick inspiration, he got her
mother's Bible and said: "Now, Gwen, try to see it as I read." But,
before he read, with the true artist's instinct he created the proper
atmosphere. By a few vivid words he made us feel the pathetic
loneliness of the Man of Sorrows in His last sad days. Then he read that
masterpiece of all tragic picturing, the story of Gethsemane. And as he
read we saw it all. The garden and the trees and the sorrow-stricken
Man alone with His mysterious agony. We heard the prayer so pathetically
submissive and then, for answer, the rabble and the traitor.

Gwen was far too quick to need explanation, and The Pilot only said,
"You see, Gwen, God gave nothing but the best--to His own Son only the
best."

"The best? They took Him away, didn't they?" She knew the story well.

"Yes, but listen." He turned the leaves rapidly and read: "'We see Jesus
for the suffering of death crowned with glory and honor.' That is how He
got His Kingdom."

Gwen listened silent but unconvinced, and then said slowly:

"But how can this be best for me? I am no use to anyone. It can't be
best to just lie here and make them all wait on me, and--and--I did
want to help daddy--and--oh--I know they will get tired of me! They are
getting tired already--I--I--can't help being hateful."

She was by this time sobbing as I had never heard her before--deep,
passionate sobs. Then again the Pilot had an inspiration.

"Now, Gwen," he said severely, "you know we're not as mean as that, and
that you are just talking nonsense, every word. Now I'm going to smooth
out your red hair and tell you a story."

"It's NOT red," she cried, between her sobs. This was her sore point.

"It is red, as red can be; a beautiful, shining purple RED," said The
Pilot emphatically, beginning to brush.

"Purple!" cried Gwen, scornfully.

"Yes, I've seen it in the sun, purple. Haven't you?" said The Pilot,
appealing to me. "And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your
canyon, down there."

"Is it true?" asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving
hands.

"True? It's as true as--as--" he glanced round the room, "as the
Pilgrim's Progress." This was satisfactory, and the story went on.

"At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One
day the