"The Great Spirit is good." The sun was going down.

High in the air the wild fowls were flying, with the bright light yet on their wings.

The glaciers of Mount Hood were flushed with crimson--a sea of glass mingled with fire.

It was a pastoral scene; in it the old history of Oregon was coming to an end, after the mysteries of a thousand years, and the new history of civilization was beginning.
Evening came, and the company dispersed, but the old chief and Gretchen sat down outside of the tent, and listened to the murmuring music of the Dalles of the Columbia, and breathed the vital air.

The Columbia is a mile wide in some places, but it narrows at the Dalles, or shelves and pours over the stone steps the gathered force of its many tides and streams.
Across the river a waterfall filled the air with misty beauty, and a castellated crag arose solitary and solemn--the remnant of some great upheaval in the volcanic ages.
[Illustration: _A castellated crag arose solitary and solemn._] The red ashes of the sunset lingered after the fires of the long day had gone down, and the stars came out slowly.