hich the sunshine and the
cloud-shadows broke in a multiplicity of wonderful half-tints. Above them
was the dazzling blue of the Colorado sky. She drew a long, long breath.

"So this is a canyon," she said. "How glad I am that I have lived to see
one."

"Yes, this is a canyon," Dr. Hope replied. "Some of us think it _the_
canyon; but there are dozens of others, and no two of them are alike. I'm
glad you are pleased with this, for it's my favorite. I wish your father
could see it."

Clover hardly understood what he said she was so fascinated and absorbed.
She looked up at the bright pinnacles, down at the flowers and the sheen
of the river-pools and the mad rush of its cascades, and felt as though
she were in a dream. Through the dream she caught half-comprehended
fragments of conversation from the seat behind. Mrs. Watson was giving her
impressions of the scenery.

"It's pretty, I suppose," she remarked; "but it's so very queer, and I'm
not used to queer things. And this road is frightfully narrow. If a load
of hay or a big Concord coach should come along, I can't think what we
should do. I see that Dr. Hope drives carefully, but yet--You don't think
we shall meet anything of the kind to-day, do you, Doctor?"

"Not a Concord coach, and certainly not a hay-wagon, for they don't make
hay up here in the mountains."

"Well, that is a relief. I didn't know. Ellen she always says, 'Mother,
you're a real fidget;' but when one grows old, and has valves in the heart
as I have, you never--We might meet one of those big pedler's wagons,
though, and they frighten horses worse than anything. Oh, what's that
coming now? Let us get out, Dr. Hope; pray, let us all get out."

"Sit still, ma'am," said the doctor, sternly, for Mrs. Watson was wildly
fumbling at the fastening of the door. "Mary, put your arm round Mrs.
Watson, and hold her tight. There'll be a real accident, sure as fate, if
you don't." Then in a gentler tone, "It's only a buggy, ma'am; there's
plenty of room. There's no possible risk of a pedler's wagon. What on
earth should a pedler be doing up here on the side of Cheyenne!
Prairie-dogs don't use pomatum or tin-ware."

"Oh, I didn't know," repeated poor Mrs. Watson, nervously. She watched the
buggy timorously till it was safely past; then her spirits revived.

"Well," she cried, "we're safe this time; but I call it tempting
Providence to drive so fast on such a rough road. If all canyons are as
wild as this, I