“See what your brother picked for me,” cried Poppy, riding alongside, and exhibiting a great sheaf of columbine tied to the pommel of her saddle.  “And how do you like North Cheyenne?  Isn’t it an exquisite place?”

“Perfectly lovely; I feel as if I must come here every day.”

“Yes, I know; but there are so many other places out here about which you have that feeling.”

“Now we will show you the other Cheyenne Canyon,—­the twin of this,” said Dr. Hope; “but you must prepare your mind to find it entirely different.”

After rather a rough mile or two through woods, they came to a wooden shed, or shanty, at the mouth of a gorge, and here Dr. Hope drew up his horses, and helped them all out.

“Is it much of a walk?” asked Mrs. Watson.

“It is rather long and rather steep,” said Mrs. Hope; “but it is lovely if you only go a little way in, and you and I will sit down the moment you feel tired, and let the others go forward.”

South Cheyenne Canyon was indeed “entirely different.”  Instead of a green-floored, vine-hung ravine, it is a wild mountain gorge, walled with precipitous cliffs of great height; and its river—­every canyon has a river—­comes from a source at the top of the gorge in a series of mad leaps, forming seven waterfalls, which plunge into circular basins of rock, worn smooth by the action of the stream.  These pools are curiously various in shape, and the color of the water, as it pauses a moment to rest in each before taking its next plunge, is beautiful.  Little plank walks are laid along the river-side, and rude staircases for the steepest pitches.  Up these the party went, leaving Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Hope far behind,—­Poppy with her habit over her arm, Clover stopping every other moment to pick some new flower, Phil shying stones into the rapids as he passed,—­till the top of the topmost cascade was reached, and looking back they could see the whole wonderful way by which they had climbed, and down which the river made its turbulent rush.  Clover gathered a great mat of green scarlet-berried vine like glorified cranberry, which Dr. Hope told her was the famous kinnikinnick, and was just remarking on the cool water-sounds which filled the place, when all of a sudden these sounds seemed to grow angry, the defile of precipices turned a frowning blue, and looking up they saw a great thunder-cloud gathering overhead.

“We must run,” cried Dr. Hope, and down they flew, racing at full speed along the long flights of steps and the plank walks, which echoed to the sound of their flying feet.  Far below they could see two fast-moving specks which they guessed to be Mrs. Hope and Mrs. Watson, hurrying to a place of shelter.  Nearer and nearer came the storm, louder the growl of the thunder, and great hail-stones pattered on their heads before they gained the cabin; none too soon, for in another moment the cloud broke, and the air was full of a dizzy whirl of sleet and rain.