Presently his daughter reined in her pony. "Stop a moment, father.
That must be the ranch," she said.

The man drew bridle, and for a moment forgot his perplexities as he
gazed at the scene before him. Far down in the valley lay a still blue
lake with a great white peak shining ethereally at its northern end.
Dark pines rolled about it, growing smaller and smaller up the hillside
until they dwindled with spires clean cut against the azure into a
gossamer filigree. Between them and the water stupendous forest
shrouded all the valley, save where an oblong of pale verdure ran back
from the fringe of boulders and was traversed by the frothing streak of
a river whose roar came up hoarsely across the pines in long pulsations.

That was all Deringham saw at first sight, but he realized that it was
very beautiful, and then commenced to note details with observant eyes.
There was a sawmill beside the river, for he could faintly hear a
strident scream and see the blue smoke drifting in gauzy wisps across
the hill. The square log-house which stood some little distance from
the lake looked well built and substantial, and the road that wound
through the green oblong had been skilfully laid with rounded strips
sawn off the great fir-trunks. Sleek cattle stood apparently ready for
dispatch in a corral, the yellowing oats beyond them were railed off by
a six-foot fence, and behind the rows of sawn-off stumps which ringed
about the clearing great trunks and branches lay piled in the confusion
of the slashing. Deringham was not a farmer, but he was a man of
affairs, and all he saw spoke to him of prosperity that sprang from
strenuous energy and administrative ability.

"You are very silent," said his daughter. "What are you thinking?"