r water, not the sullen silent blood red
streams of the Desert that flow without a sound but the plunk of the
soft bank corroding and falling in. They could not talk. They lay in
quiet, listening to the tinkle and trill and treble of the silver flow
over the stones; to the little waves lipping and lisping and lapping
through the grasses; and when the moon came up, every rill showed a
silver light. Wayland was thinking,--need I tell what he was thinking?
Was he thinking at all; or was he drinking, drinking, drinking life
from a fountain of memory immanent as present consciousness? He tossed
restlessly. He sat up with his face in his hands. When he turned, the
old man had risen and was stripping.

"A'm goin' t' find a pool an' go in, Wayland. Dry farmin' may be good
for crops; but this dry bath business o' y'r Desert,--'tis not for a
North man. Better come along! If A can find it to my neck, y'll need
a cant hook to get me out 'fore daylight!"

They had come back from their plunge and were spreading the slickers
above the fir branches for bed, when Matthews began to talk in a low
dreamy voice, more as a man thinking out loud than one uttering a
confessional. It was the first word of religion the Ranger had heard
him utter. Wayland had really come to wonder when the old preacher
prayed. When he came to know him better, he realized that a good man
may pray standing on his feet, or striding to duty, readily as on prone
knees.

"'Tis like the water o' life, Wayland! Men laugh at that phrase
to-day! Oh, A know vera well, we've no time for an old or a new
dispensation nowdays. We're too busy wi' the golden calf, an' the
painted woman, an' th' market place, an' th' den o' thieves; an' when
th' vision faileth, the people perish! 'Ye shall have a just balance
an' a just ephah'; 'an' take away y'r offerings an' y'r burnt offerings
an y'r gifts, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Ram _that_ down the throat of
y'r church-buildin' thieves, an' y'r bribe-givin' pirates, who steal a
billion out o' th' Nation's pocket, then take out an insurance policy
against a Hell, they're no so sure doesn't exist, by givin' back a
million t' th' people they've plundered! Tell me y'r old
dispensation's past? A could preach a sermon from th' oldest book in
the Bible w'ud burn up Fifth Avenue an' have y'r churches sendin' in a
call for the p'lice t' cart me away t' a lunatic asylum! Ah, yes, A
know they'll tell y' A'm not learned an' don