y were
thinking, too. He had great deep-set black eyes, which some foolish people
might mistake for knot-holes, and with these he looked down gravely,
perhaps benevolently, on the dark head and the golden one.

That was his human aspect; but he had others, and it was about one of them
that Angela wished to write--just a few words which she might like to read
again some day.

In the gray _suede_ receptacle which had temporarily and publicly
superseded the gold bag, she carried a small book. It was one of three
volumes. Two had been filled since her arrival in America, but this was
just begun. There was not much in it yet. It began with El Portal. Where
would it stop? Already she was wondering. Maybe she would never write any
more after to-day. Or the story might go on for a little, and end when
this trip with her "trail guide" ended. Or it might continue, more
perfunctorily, just long enough to lay the foundation of her new house,
the plans of which were now materializing in an architect's brain. Her
interest in those plans had fallen asleep. Everything outside this vast
cathedral of a thousand fluted red columns seemed far away and unreal. The
heart of the world was throbbing here, like the music of a muffled organ,
with only Nick Hilliard and herself for audience.

"I didn't know you kept a diary," said Nick. "Somehow you don't seem the
sort who would."

"I don't 'keep' one," Angela explained. "When I was a little girl and went
abroad with my mother, I used to write things about the days to please my
father at home. I loved him very much. But--he never saw the book. After
he died I wrote no more, until--I came to California. Now" (she spoke
hastily), "I write about things, not people. I make pictures for myself to
look at afterward; for I can't bear to think that my impressions may grow
dim, even when I'm old."

"I suppose I mustn't ask to see what you write to-day?" Nick ventured. By
and by he meant to ask a thing so much bolder and bigger that he wished
to try his feet on the difficult path.

"I must read it myself before I can judge," Angela smiled, surprised at
the suggestion from one who never put himself forward; who had never
begged for concession or favour since offering himself as "trail guide."
"Now don't speak to me for a while. I want to call the whole day back."

But though his lips were closed his eyes were not; and they seldom
wandered from the bent head--gold against a dark tree-trunk; and the ca