Beyond this--and rising, seemingly, out of the
groves--the San Bernardinos heaved their mighty masses into the sky. It
was almost dark. The city's lamps were lighted. The outlines of grove and
garden were fast being lost in the deepening dusk. The foothills, with the
lower spurs and ridges of the mountains, were softly modeled in dark blue
against the deeper purple of the canyons and gorges. Upon the cloudless
sky that was lighted with clearest saffron, the lines of the higher crests
were sharply drawn; while the lonely, snow-capped peaks,--ten thousand
feet above the darkening valley below,--catching the last rays of the sun,
glowed rose-pink--changing to salmon--deepening into mauve--as the light
failed.
Aaron King broke the silence by drawing a long breath--as one who could
find no words to express his emotions.
Conrad Lagrange spoke sadly; "And to think that there are,--in this city
of ten thousand,--probably, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety people
who never see it."
With a short laugh, the young man said, "It makes my fingers fairly itch
for my palette and brushes--though it's not at all my sort of thing."
The other turned toward him quickly. "You are an artist?"
"I had just completed my three years study abroad when mother's illness
brought me home.
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