shining tints of the lemon groves, with the rich, satiny-gray tones of the
olive-trees, were replaced now by the softer grays, greens, yellows, and
browns of the chaparral. The air was no longer heavy with the perfume of
roses and orange-blossoms, but came to their nostrils laden with the
pungent odors of yerba santa and greasewood and sage. Looking back, they
could see the valley--marked off by its roads into many squares of green,
and dotted here and there by small towns and cities--stretching away
toward the western ocean until it was lost in a gray-blue haze out of
which the distant San Gabriels, beyond Cajon Pass, lifted into the clear
sky above, like the shore-line of dreamland rising out of a dream sea.
Before them, the San Bernardinos drew ever nearer and more
intimate--silently inviting them; patiently, with a world old patience,
bidding them come; in the majestic humbleness of their lofty spirit,
offering themselves and the wealth of their teaching.

So they came, in the late afternoon, to that spot where the road for the
first time crosses the alder and cottonwood bordered stream that, before
it reaches the valley, is drawn from its natural course by the irrigation
flumes and pipes.

The sound of the mountain waters leaping down their granite-bouldered way
reached the men while they were yet some distance. Croesus pointed his
long ears forward in burro anticipation--his experience telling him that
the day's work was about to end. Czar was already ranging along the side
of the creek--sending a colony of squirrels scampering to the tree tops,
and a bevy of quail whirring to the chaparral in frightened flight. The
artist greeted the waters with a schoolboy shout of gladness. Conrad
Lagrange, with the smile and the voice of a man miraculously recreated,
said quietly, "This is the place where we stop for the night."

Their camp was a simple matter. Croesus asked nothing but to be released
from his burden--being quite capable of caring for himself. A wash in the
clear, cold water of the brook; a simple meal, prepared by Conrad Lagrange
over a small fire made of sticks gathered by the artist; their tarpaulin
and blankets spread within sound of the music of the stream; a watching of
the sun's glorious going down; a quiet pipe in the hush of the mysterious
twilight; a "good night" in the soft darkness, when the myriad stars
looked down upon the dull red glow of their camp-fire embers; with the
guarding spirit of the