She was by this time sobbing as I had never heard her before—deep, passionate sobs. Then again the Pilot had an inspiration.
“Now, Gwen,” he said severely, “you know we're not as mean as that, and that you are just talking nonsense, every word. Now I'm going to smooth out your red hair and tell you a story.”
“It's NOT red,” she cried, between her sobs. This was her sore point.
“It is red, as red can be; a beautiful, shining purple RED,” said The Pilot emphatically, beginning to brush.
“Purple!” cried Gwen, scornfully.
“Yes, I've seen it in the sun, purple. Haven't you?” said The Pilot, appealing to me. “And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your canyon, down there.”
“Is it true?” asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving hands.
“True? It's as true as—as—” he glanced round the room, “as the Pilgrim's Progress.” This was satisfactory, and the story went on.
“At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where were only grasses, asked the Prairie, 'Where are your flowers?' and the Prairie said, 'Master, I have no seeds.' Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the wild sunflowers and the red lilies all the summer long. Then the Master came and was well pleased; but he missed the flowers he loved best of all, and he said to the Prairie: 'Where are the clematis and the columbine, the sweet violets and wind flowers, and all the ferns and flowering shrubs?' And again he spoke to the birds, and again they carried all the seeds and strewed them far and wide. But, again, when the Master came, he could not find the flowers he loved best of all, and he said: 'Where are those, my sweetest flowers?' and the Prairie cried sorrowfully: 'Oh, Master, I cannot keep the flowers, for the winds sweep fiercely, and the sun beats upon my breast, and they wither up and fly away.' Then the Master spoke to the Lightning, and with one swift blow the Lightning cleft the Prairie to the heart. And the Prairie rocked and groaned in agony, and for many a day moaned bitterly over its black, jagged, gaping wound. But the Little Swan poured its waters through the cleft, and carried down deep black mould, and once more the birds carried seeds and strewed them in the canyon. And after a long time the rough rocks were decked out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung with clematis and columbine, and great elms lifted their huge tops high up into the sunlight, and down about their feet clustered the low cedars and balsams, and everywhere the violets and wind-flower and maiden-hair grew and bloomed, till the canyon became the Masters place for rest and peace and joy.”
The quaint tale was ended, and Gwen lay quiet for some moments, then said gently: