moon touching the Giralda of Seville;
and my first alpenglow. But what Stonehenge is to England, the Giralda to
Spain, and the Alps to Switzerland, that, I think, is the Mariposa Forest
of giant Sequoias to California.

"If I had been an atheist, I believe I should suddenly have been taught
the lesson of God among the great redwoods. And nobody could be
heavy-hearted here, or frivolous. I feel that the same light which burns
like fire in these trees burns in my veins; a vast wave of life,
vitalizing all creation and making it kin. I am a poor relation of these
wonderful giants. Also I am a cousin of the robins and chipmunks that
shared our picnic luncheon, and the dinner we finished a little while ago.
I am nearer than I was yesterday to all humanity, and to----"

Angela's pencil stopped its weaving back and forth across the small white
pages, pausing as if of its own accord. She looked at the last words she
had written and shut the book. Yes, she was near to all humanity; but
nearer than any to _one_ who was all the world to her. Suddenly she felt,
with poignant intensity, the nearness not only of his body to hers, but
the nearness of their souls. Her spirit and his touched in the silence of
the forest. She did not look at him yet, but she knew that he was looking
at her, and that his heart was in the look, calling to hers. And she could
not shut her ears to the call.

So she sat for a long moment, her eyes clinging for safety to the little
volume in her hands. Her fingers pressed it tightly, almost spasmodically,
and upon them she seemed to feel, even to see, Nick Hilliard's hands,
brown and strong. It was only her fancy; but it was not fancy that they
burned to clasp hers. She felt that longing of his, so vital, so
passionate, creating the picture it desired. Always before, when the
thought had flashed into her mind, "He is beginning to love me," she had
thrust it away, shutting her mind against it. But that was before her
spirit was keyed to the high music of river and forest in the Yosemite
Valley. Since then she had passed from the twilight of little society
shams and convenient, conventional self-deceivings into the glory where
only Truth was visible or audible.

At last she was forced to lift her eyes, compelled by his. She tried to
look past him, straight into the sunset, a furnace that burned up human
misgivings. But her gaze was stopped on the way by Hilliard's.

"May I read what you've written?" he aske