"No. I'm very sorry," I said, quite meekly.

While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond
man in Park uniform entered the office.

The Superintendent looked quite relieved.

"This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over
to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?" And he washed his hands of
me.

In the Washington office I had often heard of "White Mountain" Smith. I
recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in
Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I looked him
over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well. His keen
blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West Virginia. He
looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised that his speech
had a "down East" tone.

"Aren't you a Westerner?"

"No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee," he smiled. "But we drift out here from
everywhere. I've been in the West many years."

"Have you ever been in West Virginia?" I blurted. Homesickness had
settled all over me.

He looked at me quickly, and I reckon he saw that tears were close to
the surface.