ather pleased with the part he had played two days ago, had,
when her father insisted on her taking a white man as well as the
Indians, given Cassidy instructions that he should be sent. Still, she
naturally did not mention this, and indeed said nothing of any account
while they went on to the canoes.

It was slacker water above the rapid; and all afternoon they slid
slowly up on deep, winding reaches of the still, green river.
Sometimes it flashed under dazzling sunshine, but at least as often
they moved through the dim shadow of towering pines that rolled, rank
on rank, somber and stately, up the steep hillside, while high above
them all rose tremendous ramparts of eternal snow. Then, as the sun
dipped behind the great mountain wall, the clean, aromatic fragrance
of pine and fir and cedar crept into the cooling air, and a stillness
so deep that it became almost oppressive descended upon the lonely
valley. The splash of pole or paddle broke through it with a startling
distinctness, and the faint gurgle at the bows became curiously
intensified. The pines grew slower, blacker and more solemn; filmy
trails of mist crawled out from among the hollows of the hills; and
the still air was charged with an elixir-like quality when Weston ran
his canoe ashore.

While he and the Indians set about erecting a couple of tents, he saw
Miss Kinnaird standing near him and gazing up across the misty pines
toward the green transparency that still hung above the blue-white
gleam of snow.

"This," she said to Miss Stirling, "is really wonderful. One can't get
hold of it at once. It's tremendous."

The smallest of the pines rose two hundred feet above her; and they
ran up until they dwindled to insignificance far aloft at the foot of
a great scarp of rock that rose beyond them for a thousand feet or so
and then gave place in turn to climbing fields of snow.

The girl, who was an artist, drew in her breath.

"Switzerland and Norway. It's like them both--and yet it grips you
harder than either," she added. "I suppose it's because there are no
hotels, or steamers. Probably very few white people have ever been
here before."

"I really don't think many have," said Ida Stirling.

Then Miss Kinnaird laughed softly as she glanced at her attire.

"I must take off these fripperies. They're out of key," she said. "One
ought to wear deerskins, or something of that kind here."

Weston heard nothing further, and remembered that, after all, the