The Imperial Limited lurched with a swing around the lasthairpin curve of the Yale canyon. Ahead opened out a timberedvalley,—narrow on its floor, flanked with bold mountains, butnevertheless a valley,—down which the rails lay straight andshining on an easy grade. The river that for a hundred miles hadboiled and snarled parallel to the tracks, roaring through thegranite sluice that cuts the Cascade Range, took a wider channeland a leisurely flow. The mad haste had fallen from it as hastefalls from one who, with time to spare, sees his destination nearat hand; and the turgid Fraser had time to spare, for now it wasbut threescore miles to tidewater. So the great river movedplacidly—as an old man moves when all the headlong urge ofyouth is spent and his race near run.
On the river side of the first coach behind the diner, EstellaBenton nursed her round chin in the palm of one hand, leaning herelbow on the window sill. It was a relief to look over a wideningvalley instead of a bare-walled gorge all scarred with slides, tosee wooded heights lift green in place of barren cliffs, to watchbanks of fern massed a