Completely hidden by the old orchard from the road in front, and backed by the foot of the mountain spur that here forms the northern wall of the little valley, the spot commanded a magnificent view of the encircling peaks and ridges.  San Bernardino was almost above their heads.  To the east, were the more rugged walls of the upper and narrower end of the canyon; in their front, the beautiful Oak Knoll, with the dark steeps and pine-fringed crest of the Galenas against the sky; while to the west, the blue peaks of the far San Gabriels showed above the lower spurs and foothills of the more immediate range.  The foreground was filled in by the gentle slope leading down to the tiny stream at the edge of the old orchard and, a little to the left, by the cienaga—­rich in the color of its tall marsh grass and reeds, gemmed with brilliant flowers of gold and scarlet, bordered by graceful willows, and screened from the eye of the chance traveler by the lattice of tangled orchard boughs.

Seated in the shade of the sycamores on the little knoll, the two friends enjoyed the beauty of the scene, and the charming seclusion of the lovely retreat; while Croesus stood patiently, as though waiting to be rewarded for his virtue, by the removal of his pack.  Even Czar refrained from charging here and there, and lay down contentedly at their feet, with an air of having reached at last the place they had been seeking.

A few days later found them established in a comfortable camp; with tents and furniture and hammocks and books and the delighted Yee Kee to take care of them.  It had been easy to secure permission from the neighboring rancher who leased the orchard from the Company.  Conrad Lagrange, with the man and his big mountain wagon, had made a trip to town—­returning the next day with Yee Kee and the outfit.  He brought, also, things from the studio; for the artist declared that he would no longer be without the materials of his art.

The first day after the camp was built, the artist—­declaring that he would settle the question, at once, as to whether Yee Kee could cook a trout as skillfully as the novelist—­took rod and flies, and—­leaving the famous author in a hammock, with Czar lying near—­set out up the canyon.  For perhaps two miles, the painter followed the creek—­taking here and there from clear pool or swirling eddy a fish for his creel, and pausing often, as he went, to enjoy—­in artist fashion—­the beauties of the ever changing landscape.

The afternoon was almost gone when he finally turned back toward camp.  He had been away, already longer than he intended; but still—­as all fishermen will understand—­he could not, on his way back down the stream, refrain from casting here and there over the pools that tempted him.

The sun was touching the crest of the mountains when he had made but little more than half the distance of his return.  He had just sent his fly skillfully over a deep pool in the shadow of a granite boulder, for what he determined must be his last cast, when, startlingly clear and sweet, came the tones of a violin.