signboard, freshly painted, pointed the way to the Valley of the
Giants.

Shirley had not intended to come here, but now that she had arrived,
it occurred to her that it was here she wanted to come. Parking her
car by the side of the road, she alighted and proceeded up the old
skid, now newly planked and with the encroaching forestration cut
away so that the daylight might enter from above. On over the gentle
divide she went and down toward the amphitheatre where the primeval
giants grew. And as she approached it, the sound that is silence in
the redwoods--the thunderous diapason of the centuries--wove its
spell upon her; quickly, imperceptibly there faded from her mind the
memory of that grovelling Thing she had left behind in the mill-
office, and in its place there came a subtle peace, a feeling of awe,
of wonder--such a feeling, indeed, as must come to one in the
realization that man is distant but God is near.

A cluster of wild orchids pendent from the great fungus-covered roots
of a giant challenged her attention. She gathered them. Farther on,
in a spot where a shaft of sunlight fell, she plucked an armful of
golden California poppies and flaming rhododendron, and with her
delicate burden she came at length to the giant-guarded clearing
where the halo of sunlight fell upon the grave of Bryce Cardigan's
mother. There were red roses on it--a couple of dozen, at least, and
these she rearranged in order to make room for her own offering.

"Poor dear!" she murmured audibly. "God didn't spare you for much
happiness, did He?"

A voice, deep, resonant, kindly, spoke a few feet away. "Who is it?"