"I didn't know you kept a diary," said Nick. "Somehow you don't seem the
sort who would."
"I don't 'keep' one," Angela explained. "When I was a little girl and went
abroad with my mother, I used to write things about the days to please my
father at home. I loved him very much. But--he never saw the book. After
he died I wrote no more, until--I came to California. Now" (she spoke
hastily), "I write about things, not people. I make pictures for myself to
look at afterward; for I can't bear to think that my impressions may grow
dim, even when I'm old."
"I suppose I mustn't ask to see what you write to-day?" Nick ventured. By
and by he meant to ask a thing so much bolder and bigger that he wished
to try his feet on the difficult path.
"I must read it myself before I can judge," Angela smiled, surprised at
the suggestion from one who never put himself forward; who had never
begged for concession or favour since offering himself as "trail guide."
"Now don't speak to me for a while. I want to call the whole day back."
But though his lips were closed his eyes were not; and they seldom
wandered from the bent head--gold against a dark tree-trunk; and the cameo
profile--ivory-white upon a red-brown background.
Angela was sitting under the generous shade of the Grizzly Giant.
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