it in that rare air, with its deceit of distances! Landmark after
landmark of peak or bold ridge took the angle of some recollected view of
his five years' wanderings. It was already noon when he saw Galeria from
the far end of the long basin that he had crossed, with the V as the
compass of his bearings, on the ride that brought him to the top to meet
Mary and Pete Leddy.

Then the V was lost while the train wound around the range that formed
one side of the basin's rim. The blaze of midday had passed before it
entered the reaches of the best valley yet in the judgment of a
connoisseur in valleys; and under the Eternal Painter's canopy a spot of
green quivered in the heat-rays of the horizon. His Majesty was in a
dreamy mood. He was playing in delicate variations, tranquil and
enchanting, of effects in gold and silver, now gossamery thin, now
thick and rich.

"What is this thing crawling along on two silken threads and so afraid of
the hills?" he was asking, sleepily. "Eh? No! Bring the easel to me, if
you want a painting. I am not going to rise from my easy couch. There!
Fix that cushion so! I am a leisurely, lordly aristocrat. Palette? No, I
will just shake my soft beard of fine mist back and forth across the sky,
a spectrum for the sunrays. So! so! I see that this worm is a railroad
train. Let it curl up in the shadow of a gorge and take a nap. I will
wake it up by and by when I seize my brush and start a riot in the
heavens that will make its rows of window-glass eyes stare."

"I am on this train and in a hurry!" Jack objected.

"Do I hear the faint echo of a human ego down there on the earth?"
demanded the Eternal Painter. "Who are you? One of the art critics?"

"One of Your Majesty's loving subjects, who has been away in a foreign
kingdom and returns to your allegiance," Jack answered.

"So be it. I shall know if what you say is true when I gaze into your
eyes at sunset."

"I am bringing you a Velasquez!" Jack added.

"Good! Put him where he can have a view out of the window of his first
teacher at work in the studio of the universe."

The train crept on toward the hour of the Eternal Painter's riot and
toward Little Rivers, while the patch of green was softly, impalpably
growing, growing, until the crisscross breaks of the streets developed
and Jack could identify the Doge's and other bungalows. He was on the
platform of the car before the brakes ground on the wheels, leaning out
to see a crowd at the