"Yes."
"Did you live in San Francisco then?"
"No. I just went there."
"I think I guess. You went on purpose to help?"
"I felt as if every man ought to do what he could. I couldn't do much.
Shall we go on making believe?"
"You don't like talking of your good deeds."
"Oh, good deeds! I don't like talking of myself when there are better
things to talk of. I could make you out a tour in the Yosemite, Mrs. May.
You shouldn't travel by the ordinary stages. I'd get you something
special, for the driving parts; and you should have the finest trail pony
in California. I'd give ten years off my life to show you the Big Trees.
There are some mighty fine ones in other places, you know; the Santa Cruz
forest is splendid. But it's the Mariposa Big Trees, in the Yosemite, I
mean. We'd drive from Wawona early in the morning, one day, and stay till
the sunset. You can't think what sunset's like among the giant Sequoias,
with the red light, like a rain of ruby stars, falling through the
branches. And those trees are God's own architecture. I guess even you
have never seen a cathedral to touch it; because there can't be one. All
day you should stay in the forest. I'd find you places for lunch and
dinner, and the squirrels would come and help you eat."
"It does sound nice," said Angela, bewitched by the picture.
"It would be--the nicest thing that ever happened. Only 'nice' ain't a big
enough word. _Can't_ it come true? Think, with your cat and your Kate and
your trail guide? You called me a 'friend in need.' Can't I be your guide
in need? You'd have to get a guide for the Valley. Why not me?"
"We've only known each other a few days."
"Any other guide would be a stranger. And I guess, Mrs. May, if that's
all, we know each other as well as a good many, who call themselves
friends, get to know one another in years. Do you ever find out anything
about people that you didn't _feel_ the first moment you set eyes on
them?"
"Well--you did save my life!" she conceded. "I can't get away from that."
"Do you mind not getting away from it?"
"No-o."
"Then will you take me for your shuvver and trial guide to those places? I
won't ask you any more, now. You can send me packing afterward, if you
don't think I live up to the character Mr. Morehouse has given you of me."
"Mr. Morehouse! I haven't heard from him since my first day in New York."
"I mean the other Mr. Morehouse, his brother--your banker. Henry wired to
him from New York. And he was writing you, to say, if you hadn't got
anybody who knew the ropes to see you through your excursions, you
couldn't do better than let Hilliard of Lucky Star be your pilot--kind of
courier, you know. Both the Morehouses vouch for me, though it's Henry
who's my friend. All strangers who come to have a look around California
take a Californian to show them the sights. If you haven't got Mr.
Morehouse's letter, it must be waiting for you. I reckon it ought to have
arrived last night or this morning. And if you find he recommends me as a
trustworthy man, will you think the plan over, before you say no?"
"You take my breath away! But--ye-es. I'll think it over. I suppose one
really _can_ do things in America one wouldn't do _anywhere_ else?"
"That's why there's so much emigration," replied Nick, gravely.
"And I should be studying California through you, I suppose? I begin to
see that you're a typical Californian."
"No," Nick contradicted her. "You mustn't get hold of that impression. It
wouldn't be playing the game for me to let you. The typical Californian's
a very different man: a grand chap, and I reckon more like the sort you're
used to."