en upon the merry party below the dam. Men looked at each other with
stricken eyes, then turned to watch the speeding horsemen led by
Winston. As Helen rode nearer to them, questioning eyes were turned to
her, but she gave no heed. Only in the white, set face they read the
outlines of some awful tragedy. Uncle Sid was first at her side.

"Come with me," she commanded. Then she turned and rode slowly toward
the canyon. Uncle Sid rode close beside her.

"What is it, little girl?" There was a pitying, restful caress in the
softened voice.

Helen longed to throw herself in his arms, to bury her head on his
breast, to pour out her soul in confession before him. She controlled
herself, her voice.

"I have found Elijah." Then she told him all. It was good to unburden
herself. She told of the pitiful wreck from which reason had all but
fled; the burst of insane rage when Seymour's name was mentioned; the
dumb struggle to grasp the assurance that he was forgiven, was free; the
hopeless plaint, "Why didn't they trust me before it was too late,--"
the silence of the river; the wild cry,--"Is it too late, my God, is it
too late?" the mad ride, fury driven, up the canyon trail. She told him
of her fears for the dam, how easily it could be wrecked, and her voice,
steady until now, broke pitifully. "I should have told Ralph all. Only
my wicked pride kept me from it."

Uncle Sid reined his pony closer and laid a soothing hand on her arm.

"It isn't too late, little girl. Listen! You have saved Elijah. You have
saved the dam!"

They were near the canyon now, and a heavy murmur, growing in intensity,
pulsed in the quiet air. A great, hopeful light glowed in Helen's eyes;
then it suddenly gave place to anxious fear. Was it too late after all?
Had the dam given way? A moment and her questions would be answered. She
sat with parted lips, and straining eyes, waiting for the rending,
crashing thunder that would come if--then a sigh of relief escaped her.
At the canyon's mouth, the turbid, soil-stained waters of the Sangre de
Cristo were leaping and falling, but the volume was decreasing. She
turned to Uncle Sid.

"Wait here. I am going up the canyon."

She felt that she was losing control of herself; she was striving
against it, but in vain. Try as she would, she could lay hold of nothing
in the past that could aid her. What had been her past? A sense of right
and a determination to live in accord with it, and with what results? In