found to tell of such tragedies.

It was only in the evenings, after the sun had gone down, that I could
feel at ease with the Canyon. Then I loved to sit on the Rim and look
down on the one living spot far below, where, almost a century ago, the
Indians made their homes and raised their crops, watering the fields
from the clear, cold spring that gushes out of the hillside. As the
light faded, the soft mellow moon would swim into view, shrouding with
tender light the stark, grim boulders. From the plateau, lost in the
shadows, the harsh bray of wild burros, softened by distance, floated
upward.

On a clear day I could see objects on the North Rim, thirteen miles
away, and with a pair of strong field glasses I could bring the scene
quite close. It looked like a fairyland over there, and I wanted to
cross over and see what it was really like. White Mountain advanced the
theory that if we were married we could go over there for our honeymoon!
I had to give the matter careful consideration; but while I considered,
the moon came up, and behind us in the Music Room someone began to play
softly Schubert's "Serenade." I said, "All right. Next year we'll go!"




[Illustration]

_Chapter III: "I DO!"_


The Washington Office decided, by this time, that I was really going to