chains of slavery into the glorious
light of freedom's day." Elise waved her arms and rolled her eyes. Then
she stopped, laughing. "It's awfully funny. I hear it all when I sit at
the desk. You know there's only thin boards between my desk and daddy's
private room, and I can't help but hear. That coffee and bacon smell
good, and what a lovely bannock! Aren't you almost ready? It's as nice
as when we were on the ranch, and you used to carry me round on your
back. That was an awful long time ago, though, wasn't it?"

Zephyr only grunted in reply. He pursed his lips for a meditative
whistle, thought better of it, took the frying-pan from its prop, and
sounded the browning bannock with his fingers.

_For the babbling streams of youth
Grow to silent pools of truth
When they find a thirsty hollow
On their way._

He spoke dreamily.

"What are you talking about?" Elise broke in.

"Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking--might have been
thinking out loud."

"That's you, every time, Zephyr. You think without talking, and I talk
without thinking. It's lots more fun. Do you think I will ever grow into
a dear, sober old thing like you? Just tell me that." She stooped down,
taking Zephyr's face in both her hands and turned it up to her own.

Zephyr looked musingly up into the laughing eyes, and took her hands
into his.

"Not for the same reasons, I guess, not if I can help it," he added,
half to himself. "Now, if you'll be seated, I'll serve breakfast." He
dropped the hands and pointed to a boulder.

Elise ate the plain fare with the eager appetite of youth and health.
From far down the gulch the muffled roar of the stamps rose and fell on
the light airs that drifted up and down. Through it all was the soft
swish of the falling spray, the sharp _blip! blip!_ as points of
light, gathered from dripping boughs, grew to sparkling gems, then,
losing their hold, fell into little pools at the foot of the cliff. High
above the straggling town the great cables of the tram floated in the
air like dusty webs, and up and down these webs, like black spiders,
darted the buckets that carried the ore from mine to mill, then
disappeared in the roaring mill, and dumping their loads of ore shot up
again into sight, and, growing in size, swept on toward the cliff and
passed out of sight over the falls above.

Across the narrow gulch a precipice sheered up eight hundred feet, a
hard green crown of stunted spruces on