“Arizona!  Perhaps this is what he meant,” murmured Carley.  “I never dreamed of anything like this. . . .  But, oh! it overshadows me—­bears me down!  I could never have a moment’s peace under it.”

It fascinated her.  There were inaccessible ledges that haunted her with their remote fastnesses.  How wonderful would it be to get there, rest there, if that were possible!  But only eagles could reach them.  There were places, then, that the desecrating hands of man could not touch.  The dark caves were mystically potent in their vacant staring out at the world beneath them.  The crumbling crags, the toppling ledges, the leaning rocks all threatened to come thundering down at the breath of wind.  How deep and soft the red color in contrast with the green!  How splendid the sheer bold uplift of gigantic steps!  Carley found herself marveling at the forces that had so rudely, violently, and grandly left this monument to nature.

“Well, old Fifth Avenue gadder!” called a gay voice.  “If the back wall of my yard so halts you—­what will you ever do when you see the Painted Desert, or climb Sunset Peak, or look down into the Grand Canyon?”

“Oh, Glenn, where are you?” cried Carley, gazing everywhere near at hand.  But he was farther away.  The clearness of his voice had deceived her.  Presently she espied him a little distance away, across a creek she had not before noticed.

“Come on,” he called.  “I want to see you cross the stepping stones.”

Carley ran ahead, down a little slope of clean red rock, to the shore of the green water.  It was clear, swift, deep in some places and shallow in others, with white wreathes or ripples around the rocks evidently placed there as a means to cross.  Carley drew back aghast.

“Glenn, I could never make it,” she called.

“Come on, my Alpine climber,” he taunted.  “Will you let Arizona daunt you?”

“Do you want me to fall in and catch cold?” she cried, desperately.

“Carley, big women might even cross the bad places of modern life on stepping stones of their dead selves!” he went on, with something of mockery.  “Surely a few physical steps are not beyond you.”

“Say, are you mangling Tennyson or just kidding me?” she demanded slangily.

“My love, Flo could cross here with her eyes shut.”

That thrust spurred Carley to action.  His words were jest, yet they held a hint of earnest.  With her heart at her throat Carley stepped on the first rock, and, poising, she calculated on a running leap from stone to stone.  Once launched, she felt she was falling downhill.  She swayed, she splashed, she slipped; and clearing the longest leap from the last stone to shore she lost her balance and fell into Glenn’s arms.  His kisses drove away both her panic and her resentment.

“By Jove!  I didn’t think you’d even attempt it!” he declared, manifestly pleased.  “I made sure I’d have to pack you over—­in fact, rather liked the idea.”