make them all wait on me, and—and—I did want to help daddy—and—oh—I know they will get tired of me! They are getting tired already—I—I—can't help being hateful."
She was by this time sobbing as I had never heard her before—deep, passionate sobs. Then again the Pilot had an inspiration.
"Now, Gwen," he said severely, "you know we're not as mean as that, and that you are just talking nonsense, every word. Now I'm going to smooth out your red hair and tell you a story."
"It's not red," she cried, between her sobs. This was her sore point.
"It is red, as red can be; a beautiful, shining purple red," said The Pilot emphatically, beginning to brush.
"Purple!" cried Gwen, scornfully
"Yes, I've seen it in the sun, purple. Haven't you?" said The Pilot, appealing to me. "And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your canyon, down there."
"Is it true?" asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving hands.
"True? It's as true as—as—"he glanced round the room, "as the Pilgrim's Progress." This was satisfactory, and the story went on.
