eat, the novelist said, "I always have a look at the
mountains, at this time of the day, Mr. King--would you care to come?
These mountains are the real thing, you know, and well worth
seeing--particularly at this hour." There was a gentle softness in his
deep voice, now--as unlike his usual speech as his physical appearance was
unlike that of his younger companion.

Aaron King arose quickly. "Thank you, Mr, Lagrange; I will go with
pleasure."

Accompanied by the dog, they followed the avenue, under the giant pepper
trees that shut out the sky with their gnarled limbs and gracefully
drooping branches, to the edge of the little city; where the view to the
north and northeast was unobstructed by houses. Just where the street
became a road, Conrad Lagrange--putting his hand upon his companion's
arm--said in a low voice, "This is the place."

Behind them, beautiful Fairlands lay, half lost, in its wilderness of
trees and flowers. Immediately in the foreground, a large tract of
unimproved land brought the wild grasses and plants to their very feet.
Beyond these acres--upon which there were no trees--the orange groves were
massed in dark green blocks and squares; with, here and there, thin rows
of palms; clumps of peppers; or tall, plume-like eucalyptus; to mark the
roads and the ranch homes. Beyond this--and rising, seemingly, out of the
groves--the San Bernardinos heaved their mighty masses into the sky. It
was almost dark. The city's lamps were lighted. The outlines of grove and
garden were fast being lost in the deepening dusk. The foothills, with the
lower spurs and ridges of the mountains, were softly modeled in dark blue
against the deeper purple of the canyons and gorges. Upon the cloudless
sky that was lighted with clearest saffron, the lines of the higher crests
were sharply drawn; while the lonely, snow-capped peaks,--ten thousand
feet above the darkening valley below,--catching the last rays of the sun,
glowed rose-pink--changing to salmon--deepening into mauve--as the light
failed.

Aaron King broke the silence by drawing a long breath--as one who could
find no words to express his emotions.

Conrad Lagrange spoke sadly; "And to think that there are,--in this city
of ten thousand,--probably, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety people
who never see it."

With a short laugh, the young man said, "It makes my fingers fairly itch
for my palette and brushes--though it's not at all my sort of thing."

The other