"Where do you think I found them?
Right down by the big elm root," and, though he saw by the settled gloom of her face that the storm was coming, he went bravely on picturing the canyon in all the splendor of its autumn dress.

But the spell would not work.

Her heart was out on the sloping hills, where the cattle were bunching and crowding with tossing heads and rattling horns, and it was in a voice very bitter and impatient that she cried: "Oh, I am sick of all this! I want to ride! I want to see the cattle and the men and--and--and all the things outside." The Pilot was cowboy enough to know the longing that tugged at her heart for one wild race after the calves or steers, but he could only say: "Wait, Gwen.

Try to be patient." "I am patient; at least I have been patient for two whole months, and it's no use, and I don't believe God cares one bit!" "Yes, He does, Gwen, more than any of us," replied The Pilot, earnestly.
"No, He does not care," she answered, with angry emphasis, and The Pilot made no reply.
"Perhaps," she went on, hesitatingly, "He's angry because I said I didn't care for Him, you remember?
That was very wicked.

But don't you think I'm punished nearly enough now?
You made me very angry, and I didn't really mean it." Poor Gwen! God had grown to be very real to her during these weeks of pain, and very terrible.