The swaying motion soon checked Sonny’s sobs and she fell to singing to him, adding her voice to the mysterious voices of the cañon in the lilt and fall of an old camp-meeting hymn brought forth from her memories of Missouri. And presently, when its spell had soothed the tumult, she raised him up and fed him cookies made for the occasion, a sugary bribe if ever there was one. Dirk, too, was not averse to this shameful seduction, his pale eyes glowing with desire. “Tell me, Sonny,” said Nance, “does Brand cook for you?” “Sure,” said the child, “sure he does—but he’s gone all day and we get awful hungry ’fore he comes at night.” “I should think so!” thought Nance grimly, “two meals a day! When a little child should eat whenever it’s hungry, to grow! This precious Brand is about due for an investigation.” Aloud she said: “Sonny, I’m going to stay with you all day—and I’m going to wait and see Brand.” The boy was aghast at this statement, and it was plain from the distress he showed that it was unprecedented. “If you do,” he said miserably, “maybe Brand will take me away again and—and I’ll never see you any more.” But Nance had other plans and she shook her head. That was a lovely day. It was warmer than usual, since summer was stepping down the slopes of the lonely hills, and the strangely assorted trio in Blue Stone Cañon enjoyed it to the full. They explored far up the narrow defile, the child holding to the girl’s hand and skipping happily, the Collie pacing beside them, a step to the left, two steps to the rear. They watched the trout waving in the sunlit pools at noon, and waded in a riffle to find barnacles under rocks that Nance might show Sonny the tiny creature which built such a wonderful little house of infinitesimal sticks and mortar. But as the sun dropped over toward the west and the shadows deepened in the great gorge, Nance began to feel the loneliness, the cold silence, the oppression of the unpeopled wilderness. The voices seemed to raise their tones, to become menacing. More and more she realized what it must mean to a child left alone in the cañon, and a deep and rising indignation swelled within her. This Brand fellow, now—he must be cold-blooded as they made them, cruel—no, Sonny loved him. He could not be exactly that. But what sort of man could he be? She held the child close in her warm arms as she rocked again and pondered the problem. She did not know what she intended to say to him, once she faced him, but of one thing she was certain—he would know, in no uncertain terms, indeed, what a monstrous thing it was to leave a child alone in Blue Stone Cañon—alone, to listen to its mysterious voices, to feel its chill and its menace of shadows! Why, it was a wonder the little mind did not crack with strain, the small heart break with fear!