"Oh, good deeds! I don't like talking of myself when there are better things to talk of. I could make you out a tour in the Yosemite, Mrs. May. You shouldn't travel by the ordinary stages. I'd get you something special, for the driving parts; and you should have the finest trail pony in California. I'd give ten years off my life to show you the Big Trees. There are some mighty fine ones in other places, you know; the Santa Cruz forest is splendid. But it's the Mariposa Big Trees, in the Yosemite, I mean. We'd drive from Wawona early in the morning, one day, and stay till the sunset. You can't think what sunset's like among the giant Sequoias, with the red light, like a rain of ruby stars, falling through the branches. And those trees are God's own architecture. I guess even you have never seen a cathedral to touch it; because there can't be one. All day you should stay in the forest. I'd find you places for lunch and dinner, and the squirrels would come and help you eat." "It does sound nice," said Angela, bewitched by the picture. "It would be--the nicest thing that ever happened. Only 'nice' ain't a big enough word. _Can't_ it come true? Think, with your cat and your Kate and your trail guide? You called me a 'friend in need.' Can't I be your guide in need? You'd have to get a guide for the Valley. Why not me?" "We've only known each other a few days." "Any other guide would be a stranger. And I guess, Mrs. May, if that's all, we know each other as well as a good many, who call themselves friends, get to know one another in years. Do you ever find out anything about people that you didn't _feel_ the first moment you set eyes on them?" "Well--you did save my life!" she conceded. "I can't get away from that." "Do you mind not getting away from it?" "No-o." "Then will you take me for your shuvver and trial guide to those places? I won't ask you any more, now. You can send me packing afterward, if you don't think I live up to the character Mr. Morehouse has given you of me." "Mr. Morehouse! I haven't heard from him since my first day in New York." "I mean the other Mr. Morehouse, his brother--your banker. Henry wired to him from New York. And he was writing you, to say, if you hadn't got anybody who knew the ropes to see you through your excursions, you couldn't do better than let Hilliard of Lucky Star be your pilot--kind of courier, you know. Both the Morehouses vouch for me, though it's Henry who's my friend. All strangers who come to have a look around California take a Californian to show them the sights. If you haven't got Mr. Morehouse's letter, it must be waiting for you. I reckon it ought to have arrived last night or this morning. And if you find he recommends me as a trustworthy man, will you think the plan over, before you say no?" "You take my breath away! But--ye-es. I'll think it over. I suppose one really _can_ do things in America one wouldn't do _anywhere_ else?"