"Erema," he said, "at this corner where we stand there ought to be a
very large pine-tree in sight, or rather a great redwood-tree, at least
twice as high as any tree that grows in Europe, or Africa even. From the
plains it can be seen for a hundred miles or more. It stands higher up
the mountainside than any other tree of even half its size, and that
makes it so conspicuous. My eyes must be failing me, from all this
glare; but it must be in sight. Can you see it now?"

"I see no tree of any kind whatever, but scrubby bushes and yellow
tufts; and oh, father, I am so thirsty!"

"Naturally. But now look again. It stands on a ridge, the last ridge
that bars the view of all the lowland. It is a very straight tree, and
regular, like a mighty column, except that on the northern side the wind
from the mountains has torn a gap in it. Are you sure that you can not
see it--a long way off, but conspicuous?"

"Father, I am sure that I can not see any tree half as large as a
broomstick. Far or near, I see no tree."

"Then my eyes are better than my memory. We must cast back for a mile or
two; but it can not make much difference."

"Through the dust and the sand?" I began to say; but a glance from him
stopped my murmuring. And the next thing I can call to mind must have
happened a long time afterward.

Beyond all doubt, in this desolation, my father gave his life for mine.
I did not know it at the time, nor had the faintest dream of it, being
so young and weary-worn, and obeying him by instinct. It is a fearful