ilt had grown taller. But he
responded, "I'm afraid I might have been just as bad. I haven't even
reached the riding-breeches stage in evolution. Maybe never will."

"No. You won't. You'll go right through it. By and by, when you're so
rich that father and I won't be allowed to associate with you, you'll
wear riding-breeches--but for riding, not as a donation to the beauties
of nature."

"Oh, I'm already rich. It shows. Waitress down at the camp asked me
whose car I was driving through."

"I know what I wanted to say. Since you won't be our guest, will you be
our host--I mean, as far as welcoming us? I think it would be fun for
father and me to stop at your camp, tomorrow night, at the canyon,
instead of at the hotel. Will you guide me to the canyon, if I do?"

"Oh--terribly--glad!"

CHAPTER XIII

ADVENTURERS BY FIRELIGHT

Neither of the Boltwoods had seen the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. The
Canyon of the Yellowstone was their first revelation of intimidating
depth and color gone mad. When their car and Milt's had been parked in
the palisaded corral back of the camp at which they were to stay, they
three set out for the canyon's edge chattering, and stopped dumb.

Mr. Boltwood declined to descend. He returned to the camp for a cigar.
The boy and girl crept down seeming miles of damp steps to an outhanging
pinnacle that still was miles of empty airy drop above the river bed.
Claire had a quaking feeling that this rock pulpit was going to slide.
She thrust out her hand, seized Milt's paw, and in its firm warmth found
comfort. Clinging to its security she followed him by the crawling path
to the river below. She looked up at columns of crimson and saffron and
burning brown, up at the matronly falls, up at lone pines clinging to
jutting rocks that must be already crashing toward her, and in the
splendor she knew the Panic fear that is the deepest reaction to
beauty.

Milt merely shook his head as he stared up. He had neither gossiped nor
coyly squeezed her hand as he had guided her. She fell to thinking that
she preferred this American boy in this American scene to a nimble
gentleman saluting the Alps in a dinky green hat with a little feather.

It was Milt who, when they had labored back up again, when they had sat
smiling at each other with comfortable weariness, made her see the
canyon not as a freak, but as the miraculous work of a stream rolling
grains of sand for millions of years, till it had cu