If you do
her lips will close in unbreakable silence.
"I have heard no story, but I have heard the Falls 'whisper, laugh
and weep.' That is enough for me," I said, with seeming
indifference.
"What do you see when you look at them from across the canyon?" she
asked. "Do they look to you like anything else but falling water?"
I thought for a moment before replying. Memory seemed to hold up
against an indistinct photograph of towering fir-crested heights,
where through a broken ridge of rock a shower of silvery threads
cascaded musically down, down, down, until they lost themselves in
the mighty Fraser, that hurled itself through the yawning canyon
stretched at my feet. I have never seen such slender threads of
glowing tissue save on early morning cobwebs at sun-up.
"The Falls look like cobwebs," I said, as the memory touched me.
"Millions of fine misty cobwebs woven together."
"Then the legend must be true," she uttered, half to herself. I
slipped down on my treasured wolf-skin rug near her chair, and with
hands locked about my knees, sat in silence, knowing it was the one
and only way to lure her to speech. She arose, helped herself to
more tea, and with the toe of her beaded moccasin idly stroked one
of the wolf-skin paws.
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