“One doesn’t see the fire tonight,” he said as he rose, and bowing politely, offered her a seat beside him.
“It’s there all the same,” Jeanne said, as she dropped into a chair.
“Of what do you speak?” asked the old man.
“The fire,” said Jeanne. “It’s like some big, red-faced giant, hiding behind the hills. Bye and bye it will pop up all of a sudden and roar at us.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the man, with a chuckle, “but then, why worry about tomorrow? When you are my age you’ll know there may be no tomorrow!”
“No tomorrow?” Jeanne tried to think what that might be like and failed.
“Tell me,” she exclaimed, as if to break the spell, “This is a land of primeval forests. It should be one of ghosts, fairies, elves, just any little people. Are there no legends about it?”
“Yes, one,” said the old man.
“Tell me,” said Jeanne.
“Have you seen Monument Rock?” the old man asked.