That Sunday afternoon at Sarita Creek! The dinner, so savoury, so delectable; the two girls, arrayed in cool white lawn, rosy-cheeked, beaming; the gay talk and banter and laughter; the blissful hours together on the grass beneath the trees, with the wide mesa diffusing an immense languor, with the mountains bestowing a vast peace, with the brook at their feet murmuring an accompaniment to their words--hours to treasure, hours of pure gold: Little wonder that Dave, lying full length and gazing upward through the boughs at the blue vault, allowed his eyelids to sink and at last to close.

Little wonder the girls' faces grew dreamy and their voices gentle.

And none, none at all, that Lee succumbed to the spell.
He was still under the enchantment when toward sunset Ruth suggested they go up the canon.

But Imogene, arousing herself, declared that she had letters to write; and Dave, still fast asleep, was already on roamings of his own.

Ruth and Lee therefore went alone up the path through the trees and underbrush, until they emerged in the cool, dusky gorge formed by the contracting of the rocky walls.