ime came, at last, when the two men must return to Fairlands. With
Mr. and Mrs. Oakley they were spending the evening at Sibyl's home when
Conrad Lagrange announced that they would leave the mountains, two days
later.

"Then,"--said the girl, impulsively,--"Mr. King and I are going for one
last good-by climb to-morrow. Aren't we?" she concluded--turning to the
artist.

Aaron King laughed as he answered, "We certainly seem to be headed that
way. Where are we going?"

"We will start early and come back late"--she returned--"which really is
all that any one ought to know about a climb that is just for the climb.
And listen--no rod, no gun, no sketch-book. I'll fix a lunch."

"Watch out for my convict," warned the Ranger. "He must be getting mighty
hungry, by now."

Early in the morning, they set out. Crossing the canyon, they climbed the
Oak Knoll trail--down which the artist and Conrad Lagrange had been led by
the uncanny wisdom of Croesus, a few weeks before--to the pipe-line. Where
the path from below leads into the pipe-line trail, under the live-oaks,
on a shelf cut in the comparatively easy slope of the mountain's shoulder,
they paused for a look over the narrow valley that lay a thousand feet
below. Across the wide, gray, boulder-strewn wash of the mountain
torrent's way, with the gleaming thread of tumbling Clear Creek in its
center, they could see the white dots that marked the camp back of the old
orchard; and, farther up the stream, could distinguish the little opening
with the cedar thicket and the giant sycamores that marked the spot where
Sibyl was born.

Aaron King, looking at the girl, recalled that day when he and Conrad
Lagrange, in a spirit of venturesome fun, had left the choice of trails to
the burro. "Good, old Croesus!" he said smiling.

She knew the story of how they had been guided to their camping place, and
laughed in return, as she answered, "He's a dear old burro, is Croesus,
and worthy of a better name."

"Plutus would be better," suggested the artist.

"Because a Greek God is better than a Lydian King?" she asked curiously.

"Wasn't Plutus the giver of wealth?" he returned.

"Yes."

"Well, and wasn't he forced by Zeus to distribute his gifts without regard
to the characters of the recipients?"

She laughed merrily. "Plutus or Croesus--I'm glad he chose the Oak Knoll
trail."

"And so am I," answered the man, earnestly.

Leisurely, they followed the trail that is hung--narrow