beauteous flower-strewn valleys which are often found in the Black
Hills.

This "pocket," as they are called, consisted of perhaps fifty acres,
walled in on every side by rugged mountains as steep, and steeper, in
some places, than a house-roof. On the western side Brown's creek had
its source, and leaped merrily down from ledge to ledge into the
valley, across which it flowed, sinking into the earth on the eastern
side, only to bubble up again, in the canyon, with renewed strength.

The valley was one vast, indiscriminate bed of wild, fragrant flowers,
whose volume of perfume was almost sickening when first greeting the
nostrils. Every color and variety imaginable was here, all in the most
perfect bloom. In the center of the valley stood a log-cabin,
overgrown with clinging vines. There was a light in the window, and
Harris pointed toward it, as, with young Redburn, he emerged from the
fissure.

"There's my coop, pilgrim. There you will be safe for a time, at
least." He unsaddled the horse and set it free to graze.

Then they set off down across the slope, arriving at the cabin in due
time.

The door was open; a young woman, sweet, yet sad-faced, was seated
upon the steps, fast asleep.

Redburn gave an involuntary cry of incredulity and admiration as his
eyes rested upon the picture--upon the pure, sweet face, surrounded by
a wealth of golden, glossy hair, and the sylph-like form, so perfect