He stood on a half-submerged stone and danced, this odd diving bird of the riffles and waterfalls, who seems to sing best when the water is cold as ice and dashing over him and about him. He courtesies and nods to right and left and sings happily whether or not the sun is shining; and then he dives. His are the pounding torrents, his the screaming rapids, his the showers of coldest spray that never chill his song. Alone, bobbing--smiling, one almost imagines--he seeks the cold dark cañons where water roars, for dashing sprays are his sunshine. “The mountain stream’s own darling, the hummingbird of blooming waters,” wrote “Wonderful John” of him--John Muir, lover of God’s own! Hand in hand they sat and watched the ouzel, bobbing and bowing as if pretending to shrink from the plunge he loved, and listened to his misty notes and the changing oratory of the waterfall. They were silent. Both were thinking deeply. For the day before Andy Jerome had swallowed the last half-tablet, and up above the snow was hourly closing the way for Dr. Shonto to come to them with more. Over them hung this thought like the thread-held sword of old. “Dear,” said Charmian, with that little upward twist of her mouth that always made him want to kiss it, “do you know that your beard is growing fearfully long? You see, I’m taking a proprietary interest in you already. What’ll I do to you after we’re married?” Andy laughed. “To tell the truth,” he replied, “I made a great blunder on this trip. Usually, out in the woods, I carry an old-fashioned razor. But this time I brought along my safety. And every blade is dull as a hoe. Can’t sharpen razor blades on sandstone, as I do my axe and knife. “But wouldn’t I be out of character if I failed to grow a beard? Ought to hang down on my manly breast and be full of burrs or something. And you ought to be wearing a knee-length skin dress, with the hair on. I’m afraid we aren’t playing up to our rôles properly.” “I’m glad to see you so light-hearted,” she observed pensively. “I’m--I’m afraid I’m worrying a little too much, Andy.” His brow clouded instantly, and she knew that his lightness of heart was feigned. “It _is_ storming like the dickens up there,” he admitted. “Doctor Shonto will never be able to get through that stretch of chaparral if it continues. And--” “Yes?” she prompted. “And I guess it’ll continue, all right,” he finished gloomily. The hand that he held trembled a little. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” she mused, “if--if-- Well, we could live here all winter, I believe. We can get plenty to eat--such as it is--and we can always keep warm. But--” “Yes, I know.” He squeezed her fingers. “It’s the devil. If we only knew what to expect! What the dickens is the matter with me, anyway? And why didn’t the doctor tell _you_, at least?”