Waterfalls of
many forms poured over the rims. One, a broad, lacy sheet, thin
as smoke, slid over the western notch and struck a ledge in its
downward fall, to bound into broader leap, to burst far below
into white and gold and rosy mist.
Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man.
"It's a glorious morning," said Bess, in greeting.
"Yes. After the storm the west wind," he replied.
"Last night was I--very much of a baby?" she asked, watching him.
"Pretty much."
"Oh, I couldn't help it!"
"I'm glad you were afraid."
"Why?" she asked, in slow surprise.
"I'll tell you some day," he answered, soberly. Then around the
camp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterward
he strolled thoughtfully off alone along the terrace. He climbed
a great yellow rock raising its crest among the spruces, and
there he sat down to face the valley and the west.
"I love her!"
Aloud he spoke--unburdened his heart--confessed his secret. For
an instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls
waved, and all about him whirled with tumult within.
"I love her!...I understand now."
Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the
complications of the present amazed him with proof of how far he
had drifted from his old life. He discovered that he hated to
take up the broken threads, to delve into dark problems and
difficulties.
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