shameful seeming words, I felt a conscious-
ness that it was written in purity and love.
And then before my eyes there came a scene
so vivid that for a moment the office with its
familiar furniture was obliterated. What I
saw was a long firm road, green with mid-
summer luxuriance. The leisurely thudding
of my horse's feet sounded in my ears. Be-
side me was a tall, black-robed figure. I
saw her look back with that expression of
deprivation at the sky line. "It's like liv-
ing after the world has begun to die," said
the pensive minor voice. "It seems as if
part of the world had been taken down."

"Brainard," I yelled, "come here! I
have it. Here's your explanation. I can
show you a new meaning for every line of
this letter. Man, she has gone to the moun-
tains. She has gone to worship her own
gods!"

Two weeks later I got a letter from Brain-
ard, dated from Colorado.

"Old man," it said, "you're right. She
is here. I found my mountain woman here
where the four voices of her cataracts had
been calling to her. I saw her the moment
our mules rounded the road that commands