Narrower and narrower grew the road, more and more sharp the turns.  They were at the entrance of a deep defile, up which the road wound and wound, following the links of the river, which they crossed and recrossed repeatedly.  Such a wonderful and perfect little river, with water clear as air and cold as ice, flowing over a bed of smooth granite, here slipping noiselessly down long slopes of rock like thin films of glass, there deepening into pools of translucent blue-green like aqua-marine or beryl, again plunging down in mimic waterfalls, a sheet of iridescent foam.  The sound of its rush and its ripple was like a laugh.  Never was such happy water, Clover thought, as it curved and bent and swayed this way and that on its downward course as if moved by some merry, capricious instinct, like a child dancing as it goes.  Regiments or great ferns grew along its banks, and immense thickets of wild roses of all shades, from deep Jacqueminot red to pale blush-white.  Here and there rose a lonely spike of yucca, and in the little ravines to right and left grew in the crevices of the rocks clumps of superb straw-colored columbines four feet high.

Looking up, Clover saw above the tree-tops strange pinnacles and spires and obelisks which seemed air-hung, of purple-red and orange-tawny and pale pinkish gray and terra cotta, in which the sunshine and the cloud-shadows broke in a multiplicity of wonderful half-tints.  Above them was the dazzling blue of the Colorado sky.  She drew a long, long breath.

“So this is a canyon,” she said.  “How glad I am that I have lived to see one.”

“Yes, this is a canyon,” Dr. Hope replied.  “Some of us think it the canyon; but there are dozens of others, and no two of them are alike.  I’m glad you are pleased with this, for it’s my favorite.  I wish your father could see it.”

Clover hardly understood what he said she was so fascinated and absorbed.  She looked up at the bright pinnacles, down at the flowers and the sheen of the river-pools and the mad rush of its cascades, and felt as though she were in a dream.  Through the dream she caught half-comprehended fragments of conversation from the seat behind.  Mrs. Watson was giving her impressions of the scenery.

“It’s pretty, I suppose,” she remarked; “but it’s so very queer, and I’m not used to queer things.  And this road is frightfully narrow.  If a load of hay or a big Concord coach should come along, I can’t think what we should do.  I see that Dr. Hope drives carefully, but yet—­You don’t think we shall meet anything of the kind to-day, do you, Doctor?”

“Not a Concord coach, and certainly not a hay-wagon, for they don’t make hay up here in the mountains.”

“Well, that is a relief.  I didn’t know.  Ellen she always says, ’Mother, you’re a real fidget;’ but when one grows old, and has valves in the heart as I have, you never—­We might meet one of those big pedler’s wagons, though, and they frighten horses worse than anything.  Oh, what’s that coming now?  Let us get out, Dr. Hope; pray, let us all get out.”