Now I'm going to smooth out your red hair and tell you a story." "It's NOT red," she cried, between her sobs.

This was her sore point.
"It is red, as red can be; a beautiful, shining purple RED," said The Pilot emphatically, beginning to brush.
"Purple!" cried Gwen, scornfully.
"Yes, I've seen it in the sun, purple.

Haven't you ?" said The Pilot, appealing to me.

"And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your canyon, down there." "Is it true ?" asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving hands.
"True?
It's as true as--as--" he glanced round the room, "as the Pilgrim's Progress." This was satisfactory, and the story went on.
"At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie.

One day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where were only grasses, asked the Prairie, 'Where are your flowers ?' and the Prairie said, 'Master, I have no seeds.' Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the wild sunflowers and the red lilies all the summer long.