“At six o’clock we whirl into Cascade. We jump from the stages, and fairly pinch ourselves to see if we are the same people who left there in the morning. Yes, we are the same in outward appearance, but something has entered into our lives, our inner selves, that broadens us out, and will prove a continual feast in coming days. “It would seem that a climax could hardly be capped, but ours was in a most delightful way. The stages had hardly driven away when up drive four or five carriages, and we are invited to go back to Manitou, by way of the Ute Pass trail, instead of by the railroad. Nothing loath we get in, and settle ourselves for one of the pleasantest of rides. It is a perfect evening, and we have not gone far before the moon comes out and throws a spell of enchantment over the scene. The road is so smooth and hard that our horses’ hoofs make a pleasant ring as we speed along. A merry little stream, whose dashing and dancing have given it the name of “The Fountain that Boils,” accompanies us, and we run a race with it, but own ourselves thoroughly beaten in all respects, when our rival enhances its beauty, redoubles its speed, and makes louder its laughter as it throws itself headlong down the cliff of rocks; and we alight from our carriage to go down the ravine and pay homage to the beauties of Rainbow Falls. “This brief glimpse in the twilight makes us long for a view by day, and we promise ourselves a longer visit the next time we come.” As we bowl along we look up at the steep, rocky walls of the cañon, shutting us in from all disturbing thoughts and sights, and the moon floods all with its peaceful light, and all fatigue and disquiet vanishes, and we realize that we are having a fitting ending to a glorious day. The electric lights at Manitou recall us to ourselves, and we finish a well-rounded day, begun with Pike’s Peak by sunrise, and we leave him sleeping under the watchful eye of the purest moon that ever shone. Wednesday, October 2d. Another brilliant day. An early breakfast. Carriages were taken for the most wonderful drive of the trip. First to “Iron Springs” and “Ruxton Glen,” then to the “Garden of the Gods,” more wonderful than can be told; then to “Glen Eyrie”; then the “Messa Road”--who will forget the beauty of its scenery? We then turned our way to the scene of what was to be the culmination of our journey. As we approached Cheyenne Mountain, memories of (H. H.) Helen Hunt Jackson, arose in every mind. Her solitary grave upon Cheyenne Mountain, selected by herself, is unmarked, except as friendship’s hand has raised a mound of small stones and pieces of marble, an evidence of affection more significant than formal monument could be. It is an illustration of one of her own verses: “But no decaying Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone Our hearts must make! To an exceeding glory grown, This grief outweighing.”