hill at her great moment and destroy her and her child. Indians would
not live either on the village side of The Stone or in the valley beyond.
They had a legend that, some day, one, whom they called The Man Who
Sleeps, would rise from his hidden couch in the mountains, and, being
angry that any dared to cumber his playground, would hurl The Stone upon
them that dwelt at Purple Hill. But white men pay little heed to Indian
legends. At one time or another every person who had come to the village
visited The Stone. Colossal as it was, the real base on which its weight
rested was actually very small: the view from the village had not been
all deceitful. It is possible, indeed, that at one time it had really
rocked, and that the rocking had worn for it a shallow cup, or socket, in
which it poised. The first man who came to Purple Valley prospecting had
often stopped his work and looked at The Stone in a half-fear that it
would spring upon him unawares. And yet he had as often laughed at
himself for doing so, since, as he said, it must have been there hundreds
of thousands of years. Strangers, when they came to the village, went to
sleep somewhat timidly the first night of their stay, and not
infrequently left their beds to go and look at The Stone, as it hung
there ominously in the light of the moon; or listened towards it if it
was dark. When the moon rose late, and The Stone chanced to be directly
in front of it, a black sphere seemed to be rolling into the light to
blot it out.

But none who lived in the village looked upon The Stone in quite the same
fashion as did that first man who had come to the valley. He had seen it
through three changing seasons, with no human being near him, and only
occasionally a shy, wandering elk, or a cloud of wild ducks whirring down
the pass, to share his companionship with it. Once he had waked in the
early morning, and, possessed of a strange feeling, had gone out to look
a The Stone. There, perched upon it, was an eagle; and though he said to