Deeply moved by her honesty and by her simple trust in him; and charmed by the air of quiet, natural dignity with which she spoke of her gifts; the artist tried to thank her.

“And now,” he added, “the meaning—­tell me the meaning of your gifts.  You promised—­you remember—­that you would read the pretty riddle, when you came again.”

She laughed merrily.  “And haven’t you guessed the meaning?” she said in her teasing mood.

“How could I?” he retorted.  “I was not schooled in your mountains, you know.  Your world up here is still a strange world to me.”

Still smiling with the pleasure of her fancy, she replied, “But didn’t you ask me again and again to help you to know the mountains as I know them?”

“Yes,” he said, “but you would not promise.”

“I did better than promise”—­she returned—­“I brought you, from the mountains themselves, their three greatest gifts.”

He shook his head, with the air of a backward schoolboy—­“Won’t you read the lesson?”

“If you will work while I talk, I will,” she answered—­amused by the hopelessness of his manner and tone.

Obediently, he took up his brushes, and turned toward his picture.

Removing her hat, she seated herself on the ground, where she had woven the willow basket for the fish.

After a moment’s silence, she began—­timidly, at first, then with increasing confidence as she found words to express her charming fancy.  “First, you must know, that in all the wild life of the mountains there is no creature so strong—­in proportion to its size and weight, I mean—­as the trout that lives in the mountain streams.  Its home is in the icy torrents that are fed by the snows of the highest peaks and canyons.  It lives, literally, in the innermost heart and life of the hills.  It seeks its food at the foot of the falls, where the water boils in fierce fury; where the current swirls and leaps among the boulders; and where the stream rushes with all its might down the rocky channels.  With its muscles, fine as tempered steel, it forces its way against the strength of the stream—­conquering even the fifty-foot downward pour of a cataract.  Its strength is a silent strength.  It has no voice other than the voice of its own beautiful self.  And all its gleaming colors you may see, in the morning and in the evening, tinting the mighty heads and shoulders and sides of the hills themselves.  And so, the first gift that I brought you—­fresh from the mountain’s heart—­was the gift of the mountain’s strength.

“The second gift was gathered from bushes that were never planted by the hand of man.  They grow as free and untamed as the rains that water them, and the earth that feeds them, and the sunshine that sweetens hem.  In them is the flavor of mountain mists, and low hung clouds, and shining dew; the odor of moist leaf-mould, and unimpoverished soil; the pleasant tang of the sunshine; and the softer sweetness of the shady nooks where they grow.  In the second gift, I brought you the purity, and the flavor of the mountains.”