As Conrad Lagrange said—­they might have hired a wagon, or even an automobile, to take them and their goods to some mountain ranch where they would have had no trouble in securing a burro for their wanderings A team would have made the trip by noon.  A machine would have set them down in Clear Creek Canyon before the sun could climb high enough to look over the canyon walls.  “But that”—­explained the novelist, as they trudged leisurely along between rows of palms that bordered the orange groves on either side of their road, and sensed the mystery that marks the birth of a new day—­“but that is not a proper way to go to the mountains.

“The mountains”—­he continued, with his eyes upon the distant heights—­“are not seen by those who would visit them with a rattle and clatter and rush and roar—­as one would visit the cities of men.  They are to be seen only by those who have the grace to go quietly; who have the understanding to go thoughtfully; the heart to go lovingly; and the spirit to go worshipfully.  They are to be approached, not in the manner of one going to a horse-race, or a circus, but in the mood of one about to enter a great cathedral; or, indeed, of one seeking admittance to the very throne-room of God.  When going to the mountains, one should take time to feel them drawing near.  They are never intimate with those who hurry.  Mere sight-seers seldom see much of anything.  If possible,”—­insisted the speaker, smiling gravely upon his companion,—­“one should always spend, at least, a full day in the approach.  Before entering the immediate presence of the hills, one should first view them from a distance, seeing them from base to peak—­in the glory of the day’s beginning, as they watch the world awake; in the majesty of full noon, as they maintain their calm above the turmoil of the day’s doing; and in the glory of the sun’s departure, as it lights last their crests and peaks.  And then, after such a day, one should sleep, one night, at their feet.”

The artist listened with delight, as he always did when his friend spoke in those rare moods that revealed a nature so unknown to the world that had made him famous.  When the novelist finished, the young man said gently, “And your words, my friend, are almost a direct quotation from that anonymous book which my mother so loved.”

“Perhaps they are, Aaron”—­admitted Conrad Lagrange—­“perhaps they are.”

So it was that they spent that day—­in leisure approach—­the patient Croesus, with his burden, always in the lead, and Czar, like a merry sprite, playing here and there.  Several times they stopped to rest beside the road, while provident Croesus gathered a few mouthfuls of grass or weeds.  Many times they halted to enjoy the scene that changed with every step.