“But it’s a blot on the Park. It’s more suggestive than the worst Doré picture. Boo!” Mrs. Bruce shuddered again, and looked fearfully at the dead forest, sparse and wild, rearing its barkless trunks amid the giant rocks of wild and threatening form. “The government ought to do something about it.” “You flatter Uncle Sam,” said Irving. “I don’t think any one else expects him to move mountains.” “Well, they might train vines over it,” suggested Mrs. Bruce; and the driver burst into some sound which ended in a fit of coughing, while Irving laughed. The sudden beauty of the scenery diverted Mrs. Bruce from her plans for reform. Her enthusiasm over the view led her to turn and look down to catch Betsy’s eye. “Are you seeing?” she cried. Betsy nodded several times to express appreciation. “It’s just like life, isn’t it?” went on Mrs. Bruce pensively to her son. “Full of startling contrasts. Do you know, Irving, I think Mr. Nixon is talking to Betsy?” “No doubt he remembers her,” returned Irving. “He has seen her as often as he has you.” “That’s true; but it’s nice of him, just the same.” Irving smiled. “Nixie’s got to talk,” he remarked. “But you know,” said Mrs. Bruce, “there _are_ snobs in the world.” “So I’ve heard.” “I like Mr. Nixon, anyway,” she went on argumentatively. “It isn’t necessary for a man to be handsome.” Irving sighed. “What a blessed relief that you think so, Madama! Otherwise I’m sure you’d call upon the Creator, and make it a subject of prayer.” “Irving, you’re making fun of me.” “You know, Madama, that I never did such a thing.” The stage drew to a standstill. Rosalie Vincent’s eyes were starry as she looked in worshipful silence, and she momentarily forgot her situation. Miss Hickey gazed and chewed. “I’ve got to have me a new apron,” she said. “A chump in the kitchen burned one o’ mine yesterday.” The stage moved on and paused again in the picturesque pass that leads to the Golden Gate, while all eyes rested upon the Rustic Waterfall, whose tuneful grace as it leaps from ledge to ledge down the worn rock, speaks of life and beauty, striking after the desolation just passed. Mrs. Bruce’s suspended accusation was repeated as the horses started. “You do make fun of me, Irving,” she said. “No, no,” he returned. “I simply recognize your spirit of knight-errantry. Glorious business.” He smiled at her. “Journeying through the world and righting wrongs as you go.” “I really do think the vines would be a lovely idea,” she declared; and the driver coughed again. “See how the Hoodoos prepared you to revel in the present beauty,” said Irving. “You just said that it wasn’t necessary for all men to be handsome. Same thing applies to landscape, doesn’t it?” “But his mother is very handsome, I think,” replied Mrs. Bruce, her butterfly habit of mind coming in play; “and that gentleman,—did he say—”