The artist had visited the house several times since his first meeting with Millicent, and had promised to be her guide to the high hill-top, whence a view of the Sierra Nevadas was to be obtained. Up the narrow bridle path toiled the two horses, Graham’s leading the way. The road was a difficult one, underbrush and rolling stones making it dangerous for any horse which was not sure-footed. Old Sphinx set his feet firmly on the solid ground, avoiding all pit-falls in a wary fashion. The air was sweet with the spicy breath of the madrone tree, whose dark red bark and brilliant glossy leaves gleamed out here and there through the darker foliage of the great redwoods. The young man turned his head over his shoulder, letting his mustang find out the path, and talked to his companion, who was not yet at home in the saddle. One of the new delights which the western country held for Millicent was that of riding. Most of her life had been spent in Venice; and she had had little opportunity for indulging in that most exhilarating exercise. Graham assured her that she would soon make a good rider, as she quickly learned to assume the graceful but uncomfortable position compelled by the side-saddle. She was without fear, having that sort of bravery which is found in some children, and which comes from an ignorance of danger. From a point in the road whence a view of the happy valley was to be obtained, Graham reined in his horse. The wide, pleasant valley lay below them, the house, its central point of interest, standing surrounded by the orchard and garden. A brook wound like a silver ribbon through the wide fields and wooded groves, under rustic bridges, here and there breaking into foam over a mass of stone, or a sudden shelving of the land.