"How can one go to her? It seems to me sheerest mockery to speak of patience and submission to a wild young thing from whom all this is suddenly snatched forever--and this was very life to her, too, remember."Then he sprang up and we rode hard for an hour, till we came to the mouth of the canyon.Here the trail grew difficult and we came to a walk.As we went down into the cool depths the spirit of the canyon came to meet us and took The Pilot in its grip.He rode in front, feasting his eyes on all the wonders in that storehouse of beauty.Trees of many kinds deepened the shadows of the canyon.
Over us waved the big elms that grew up here and there out of the bottom, and around their feet clustered low cedars and hemlocks and balsams, while the sturdy, rugged oaks and delicate, trembling poplars clung to the rocky sides and clambered up and out to the canyon's sunny lips.Back of all, the great black rocks, decked with mossy bits and clinging things, glistened cool and moist between the parting trees.From many an oozy nook the dainty clematis and columbine shook out their bells, and, lower down, from beds of many-colored moss the late wind-flower and maiden-hair and tiny violet lifted up brave, sweet faces.And through the canyon the Little Swan sang its song to rocks and flowers and overhanging trees, a song of many tones, deep-booming where it took its first sheer plunge, gay-chattering where it threw itself down the ragged rocks, and soft-murmuring where it lingered about the roots of the loving, listening elms.A cool, sweet, soothing place it was, with all its shades and sounds and silences, and, lest it should be sad to any, the sharp, quick sunbeams danced and laughed down through all its leaves upon mosses, flowers and rocks.No wonder that The Pilot, drawing a deep breath as he touched the prairie sod again, said:
"That does me good.It is better at times even than the sunny hills.This was Gwen's best spot."I saw that the canyon had done its work with him.His face was strong and calm as the hills on a summer morning, and with this face he looked in upon Gwen.It was one of her bad days and one of her bad moods, but like a summer breeze he burst into the little room.
"Oh, Gwen!" he cried, without a word of greeting, much less of Commiseration, "we have had such a ride!" And he spread out the sunlit, round-topped hills before her, till I could feel their very breezes in my face.This The Duke had never dared to do, fearing to grieve her with pictures of what she should look upon no more.
But, as The Pilot talked, before she knew, Gwen was out again upon her beloved hills, breathing their fresh, sunny air, filling her heart with their multitudinous delights, till her eyes grew bright and the lines of fretting smoothed out of her face and she forgot her pain.Then, before she could remember, he had her down into the canyon, feasting her heart with its airs and sights and sounds.
The black, glistening rocks, tricked out with moss and trailing vines, the great elms and low green cedars, the oaks and shivering poplars, the clematis and columbine hanging from the rocky nooks, and the violets and maiden-hair deep bedded in their mosses.All this and far more he showed her with a touch so light as not to shake the morning dew from bell or leaf or frond, and with a voice so soft and full of music as to fill our hearts with the canyon's mingling sounds, and, as I looked upon her face, I said to myself:
"Dear old Pilot! for this I shall always love you well." As poor Gwen listened, the rapture of it drew the big tears down her cheeks--alas! no longer brown, but white, and for that day at least the dull, dead weariness was lifted from her heart.
