ker to give all his
attention to keep his companion from falling again until they reached
the open. Then came the plunge through the manzanita thicket, then a
cool wade through waist-deep ferns, and then they emerged, holding each
other's hand, breathless and panting before the spring.

It did not belie his enthusiastic description. A triangular hollow,
niched in a shelf of the mountain-side, narrowed to a point from which
the overflow of the spring percolated through a fringe of alder, to
fall in what seemed from the valley to be a green furrow down the whole
length of the mountain-side. Overhung by pines above, which met and
mingled with the willows that everywhere fringed it, it made the one
cooling shade in the whole basking expanse of the mountain, and yet was
penetrated throughout by the intoxicating spice of the heated pines.
Flowering reeds and long lush grasses drew a magic circle round an open
bowl-like pool in the centre, that was always replenished to the slow
murmur of an unseen rivulet that trickled from a white-quartz cavern
in the mountain-side like a vein opened in its flank. Shadows of timid
wings crossed it, quick rustlings disturbed the reeds, but nothing more.
It was silent, but breathing; it was hidden to everything but the sky
and the illimitable distance.

They threaded their way around it on the spongy carpet, covered by
delicate lace-like vines that seemed to caress rather than trammel their
moving feet, until they reached an open space before the pool. It was
cushioned and matted with disintegrated pine bark, and here they sat
down. Mrs. Horncastle furled her parasol and laid it aside; raised
both hands to the back of her head and took two hat-pins out, which she
placed in her smiling mouth; removed her hat, stuck the hat-pins in it,
and handed it to Barker, who gently placed it on the top of a tall reed,
where during the rest of that momentous meeting it swung and drooped
like a flower; removed her gloves slowly; drank still smilingly and
gratefully nearly a wineglassful of the water which Barker brought
her in the green twisted chalice of a lily leaf; looked the picture of
happiness, and then burst into tears.

Barker was astounded, dismayed, even terror-stricken. Mrs. Horncastle
crying! Mrs. Horncastle, the imperious, the collected, the coldly
critical, the cynical, smiling woman of the world, actually crying!
Other women might cry--Kitty had cried often--but Mrs. Horncastle!
Yet, there