And through the canyon the Little Swan sang its song to rocks and flowers and overhanging trees, a song of many tones, deep-booming where it took its first sheer plunge, gay-chattering where it threw itself down the ragged rocks, and soft-murmuring where it lingered about the roots of the loving, listening elms.

A cool, sweet, soothing place it was, with all its shades and sounds and silences, and, lest it should be sad to any, the sharp, quick sunbeams danced and laughed down through all its leaves upon mosses, flowers and rocks.

No wonder that The Pilot, drawing a deep breath as he touched the prairie sod again, said: "That does me good.

It is better at times even than the sunny hills.
This was Gwen's best spot." I saw that the canyon had done its work with him.

His face was strong and calm as the hills on a summer morning, and with this face he looked in upon Gwen.