of the
canon close to the river's edge, where he might listen to the voices of
the waters as they went singing by him on their way to the old town and
thence to the sea.

He accordingly dismounted, and after lighting a fresh cigar, stretched
himself at full length upon the grass which grew on the river's bank,
allowing his horse to graze at will. Just behind him rose the abrupt
wall of the canon some thirty or forty feet in height which, at this
hour of the morning, cast a deep shadow over the spot where he lay and
halfway across the river in front of him. It was just the sort of place
for an Indian or one of Dick's nature to linger in and dream and muse.
The tips of the tall grass and reeds which grew close to the water's
edge, swayed gently in the fresh morning breeze. The song of the finch
and linnet issued from the thick, low willow copse growing along the
river's banks.

How peaceful it was, and how sweetly the waters sang! No wonder the
Indian prized the peace and beauty of nature above all else. What was
his _hacienda_ to this? He was never really happy when the roof of a
house intervened between himself and the sky.

Suddenly his attention was attracted by a noise overhead, and glancing
upward, he sprang to his feet just in time to avoid a mass of earth and
stones that came rolling down over the face of the cliff and fell on the
very spot where he had been lying. The next instant, before he had time
to realize what was happening, a soft, fluffy mass dropped into his arms
with an impact that nearly brought him to his knees. For some seconds
Dick looked hard at the object in his arms in order to assure himself
that he really was awake and not still dreaming in the grass by the side
of the river.

There was no doubt about it; the woman had arrived.

Miss Van Ashton lay quite still in his arms; she had fainted. For the
first time in his life, a panic seized him.

"Miss Van Ashton!" he cried excitedly, bending over her. She seemed like
nothing, as light as a feather as she lay so still and pale in his
strong arms. It seemed as though he could have held her thus forever,
and he was almost beginning to wish that he might as he watched the
pallor of her face slowly give way to its natural pink and white glow,
delicate as the lining of a conch-shell. Strange that he had not noted
this peculiarly piquant and attractive face before.

"Miss Van Ashton!" he cried once more. But again there was no response.
He lower