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The Doctor still lived. I would see him once more before I left the land for ever. It was a hard and a long day's journey, and was nearly sundown when we reached the little path planted with cherry trees, and overhung in places with vines of grape, leading from the river up the hill to his house. I heard the shouts of children in the hills, and saw the old man sitting in his cabin porch that overlooks the river. He had some books and papers near him. His face and demeanour were majesty itself.

He arose as he saw us through the trees and vines, and shaded his brow with his hand as he peered down the path. Men in the mountains do not forget faces. Mountaineers never forget each other, though they may separate for twenty years. In a city you may meet a thousand new faces a year; there a new face is a rare thing.

He came down the steps in moccasins and a rich dress of skins and fur. His thin hair fell in long silver tresses on his shoulders. He was stouter than before, and seemed quite strong. He took my hands, led me up to a seat, sat down by my side, and we two together looked up the river and up to the north. The same old golden glory rested like a mantle on the shoulders and about the brows of Shasta; the same sunset splendour as of old; the purple tint, the streaming bars, the banner of red and blue and gold was stretching away from the summit across the sky.

He had learned the Indians custom of silent