As Bill spoke, the Rainbow Bridge, for which we had planned to start in a few days, became a rainbow indeed, but not of hope. The Grand Canyon, the Hopi villages, Havasupai Canyon, Yellowstone, Glacier Park! Their red cliffs and purple distances shimmered before our eyes as dear, lost visions, and faded, to be replaced by a heap of junk scattered in a lone arroyo, and two desolate female figures standing on the Albuquerque platform, waiting for the through train east. “Well, Bill, will you make us an offer for her as she stands?” Bill squinted at her, and shook his head, “Don’t think I’d better, ma’am.” The day shone brilliant blue and gold, and the valley of cottonwood sparkled like emeralds, but all seemed black to us. Toby looked almost as guilty as she deserved to look, and that, though unusual and satisfactory, was but a minor consolation. “Too bad,” said Bill, sympathetically, “that you didn’t sound the river before you tried to cross.” “It was indeed,” I said, without looking at anyone. “I didn’t hear _you_ suggest stopping,” said Toby. One would have thought she would be too crushed to reply after Bill’s remark, but you never can tell about Toby. We watched Bill methodically and quickly replace the wheels, shovel out the sand and mud, put the tools in place, wipe the cushions, and put his foot on the starter, the last as perfunctorily as a doctor holds a mirror to the nostrils of a particularly dead corpse. Instantly, the wonderful old lady broke into a quiet, steady purr! A cheer rose from the watchers on the river bank, in which ten little Indian boys joined, and Toby and I embraced and forgave each other. We did not say good-by to Bill. We had a rendezvous with Bill at the garage for the following morning. Fearful lest the engine stop her welcome throb, we jumped into the car, and drove the sixteen miles home, up steep hills and down, under our own power. Fate had one last vicious jab in store for us. Five minutes after starting, a thunder cloud burst, and rained on us till we turned into our driveway, when it ceased as suddenly as it started. What was left of the car, I backed out of the garage next morning. Toby stood on the running board, and directed me how to avoid a low hanging apricot tree, her eye and her spirits as cocky as ever. “All clear!” she called. I backed, and crashed into the tree. A splintering, sickening noise followed. The top of the car, the only part which had previously escaped injury, showed beautiful jagged rents and the broken end of a rod bursting through the cloth. For three days, Toby discoursed on photography, sunsets, burros, geology and Pima baskets, but nobody could have guessed from anything she said that automobiles had yet been invented. At last she gave me a chance. “In driving over a desert road with sharp turns,” she said confidently, “the thing is to----” “Toby!” It was too good an opening. “As a chauffeur, you make a perfect gondolier.”