d with fire. It was a pastoral
scene; in it the old history of Oregon was coming to an end, after the
mysteries of a thousand years, and the new history of civilization was
beginning.

Evening came, and the company dispersed, but the old chief and Gretchen
sat down outside of the tent, and listened to the murmuring music of the
Dalles of the Columbia, and breathed the vital air. The Columbia is a mile
wide in some places, but it narrows at the Dalles, or shelves and pours
over the stone steps the gathered force of its many tides and streams.
Across the river a waterfall filled the air with misty beauty, and a
castellated crag arose solitary and solemn--the remnant of some great
upheaval in the volcanic ages.

[Illustration: _A castellated crag arose solitary and solemn._]

The red ashes of the sunset lingered after the fires of the long day had
gone down, and the stars came out slowly. The old chief was sad and
thoughtful.

"Sit down by my feet, my child," he said to Gretchen, or in words of this
meaning. "I have been thinking what it is that makes the music in the
violin. Let us talk together, for something whispers in the leaves that my
days are almost done."

"Let me get the violin and play to you, father; we are alone."

"Yes, yes; get the music, child, and you shall play, and we will talk. You
shall sit down at my feet and play, and we will talk. Go, my little
spirit."

Gretchen brought her violin, and sat down at his feet and tuned it. She
then drew her bow, and threw on the air a haunting strain.

"Stop there, little spirit. It is beautiful. But what made it beautiful?"

"My bow--don't you see?"

Gretchen drew her bow, and again lifted the same haunting air.

"No--no--my girl--not the bow--something behind the bow."

"The strings?"

"No--no--something behind the strings."

"My fingers--so?"

"No--no--something behind the fingers."

"My head--_here_?"

"No--something behind that."

"My heart?"

"No--no--something behind that."

"I?"

"Yes--you, but something behind that. I have not seen it, my girl--your
spirit. It is that that makes the music; but there is something behind
that. I can feel what I can not see. I am going away, girl--going away to
the source of the stream. Then I will know everything good is
beautiful--it is good that makes you beautiful, and the music beautiful.
It is good that makes the river beautiful, and the stars. I am going away
where all is beautiful. When I am