The Girl of the Panel Picture

The Girl of the Panel Picture By D. C. Retsloff

Old Hy Brown very deliberately turned his shrewd, gray eyes toward the opening between the trees that gave a glimpse of the trail a quarter of a mile down the mountain side. He was a queer character. All his life he had hungered for the call of the wild; for many years he had lived at "Cloud Crest," his fancifully-named mountain niche, alone under the heavens, alone with the mighty trees of a thousand years. Ill health had sent him, a young man, away from an eastern city to this spot,which might rightly be called, "an artist's dream of beauty." To him it was even more, for it had given him health and physical strength and a philosophy that comes only from long years of association with the beauties of creation. The rose and gold lining of the sky was draping itself softly over the mountain, and twilight was creeping upward, on tiptoe as he stopped in the doorway and looked down the gap into the valley, wondering how many earthworms had felt the thrill which comes from standing almost on the rim of the world, where the bite of the sharp air stings the flesh into glowing resistance. The wind came cold from the snowy summit of Mt. Graybeck, and he felt the mysteriousness of it all, as he viewed the wonderful handiwork of the Master, in the clustering shadows. "Cloud Crest" had an elevation of something like seven thousand feet and even on this June evening, it was anything but comfortable away from a blazing fire. His thoughts were disturbed by the appearance of a young man who came slowly up from the gathering darkness. The stranger was a bedraggled looking creature, carrying a black bag, a battered tin box, and a flat parcel a couple of feet square. The mellow tones of Hy Brown seemed in perfect keeping with the surroundings: "Hello, stranger, are you lost, or going somewhere? There's no other habitation on this side of the mountain." "I'm tired," replied the traveler, leaning against the door frame, "tired and hungry." The wind passing through the branches of a giant pine at

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the corner of the cabin rustled in soft aeolian murmurs, as Hy Brown answered: "Come in, then, come right in." They turned from the settling of night to the brightly lighted room with its artistic disorder, chairs drawn up before the dancing fire, and tables scattered here and there. Furniture, walls, fur rugs, everything breathed of rest and peace, and comradeship. Hy Brown was noted for his quaint logic, his unfettered thoughts, his expressive tongue, and his honesty and fairness to humans. He had never been known to turn a deaf ear to suffering, and the thirty years he had lived in the mountains, he had never mistreated a fellow man. Now, as he placed food and drink before his guest, his activemind was searching for the reason, or the reasons, that had led him to "Cloud Crest." He saw that he was young, not over thirty, tall, lean, and sinewy; there was a look of mystery in the depths of his dark eyes, and his face lacked something. But it was with a satisfied feeling that Hy read an indication of good breeding in the thin, delicate, flexible hand with its finely shaped thumb and slender fingers. Hy Brown had lived so long in the wide spaces, that he respected personal silence as he respected the silence of Nature. He gave his bark-covered store-room to the young man for sleeping quarters, saying: "Better take seventeen hours' sleep, it will do you good." The old man was always up before sunrise; he reveled in the early coloring of the hills, the soft shades, and high lights of old Mt. Graybeck. Early as he was, his guest was out earlier, sitting on a log gazing at the mountain. He turned at the sound of his host's footsteps, tapped his long, slender fingers together and asked suddenly: "May I stay here with you, and some day will you go with me up to the top of that white peak? You know, things will always be the same up there, no matter what happens down here. This is a beautiful spot, so wonderful that I want to stay. Don't you think it is an ideal place?" Hy Brown nodded: "You are welcome to stay; no man can ever tell what he may be called on to do for another." Time never drags with Nature running the loom, so the stranger stayed and easily adapted himself to his new environment. He called himself Rob Henry. Of his past he never spoke. Brown grew fond of him as the weeks spun on; they had a common interest in their love for the great out-doors. Rob rustled wood and cooked. When his self-imposed tasks were done, he would disappear and be gone for hours at a time, always carrying his mysterious luggage with him.

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Three months passed. One day Brown, in trying to locate a bee tree, observed the young man stooping over an easel, where a gap in the range gave a glimpse of the valley below, with the river gleaming, a silver thread in the far distance. Noiselessly Brown approached. He almost held his breath in wonder, for before him, in miniature, was an exact reproduction of the scene. Its living, glowing colors, blending with the azure of the sky, was done with an accuracy that spoke of the power of genius. He forgot that he was an unbidden admirer, as he exclaimed: "How beautiful, how wonderful!" Quick as a flash the young man, with bold, mad strokes ruined the exquisite work. "Rob, what have you done? Why did you destroy that marvelous thing?" Hy almost wept. The artist trembled like an aspen, and a look of despair crossed his face. He flung himself down on the carpet of pine needles and his thin form shook with sobs. "Tell me, Rob, why did you do it? There is a fortune for you in your brushes; let me help you. I know people who would pay almost any price for such a picture." "Why did I do it? Because I thought you, like all the others, would call me crazy. Something inside of me makes me paint. The people down in the valley have no idea of color. I stole up here, and it has been so wonderful, so heavenly, to spend hours, undisturbed in the work I love." He sat up. "I have several finished and hidden in the bark shack. You may see them if you wish. I have done this canvas over three times. It is my last piece. I can't work fast enough to gather all the wonderful colors, the tints and shadows. There is something inside of me that never will be stilled. I must paint." His eyes burned feverishly as he looked into the calm, gi ay orbs of the older man. There was an aching pressure in Hy Brown's throat: "Keep at it, Rob; you shall have everything you need."

Though the painted glimpse through the gap had been beautiful, it was forgotten when Hy saw the collection in Rob's quarters. All were gems in a way, but there were two that stood — apart like green oases in a sandy desert an oblong piece and a panel. The colors so lavishly spread by Nature, Rob had caught and fixed with an accuracy that would have attracted and held the eye of the most critical connoisseur. They were so wonderful in every sense of the word, and so real that Hy could

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almost smell the piney, perfumed wind as it kissed the flowers; could almost feel the damp of the rocky hillside under the evergreens. "That oblong canvas of Mt. Graybeck is true to itself at sunrise, it makes me think the whole world smiling. Many a morning I have seen it glowing in the same soft light; as I watch I can see the tints change and the shadows shift." "I copied it in an hour of inspiration," replied Rob; "to me it's like having died and been born again in a new atmosphere."

— "And this one what about it?" Hy pointed to a long panel with the figure of a girl standing, slender and straight, on a rugged scrap of rock, stamped with age and time. A background of sun-kissed, cloudless sky gave the face an expression of entranced expectancy and beauty. A troubled look came and lingered in the artist's eyes. He brushed his hand across his forehead as he answered: "She, well, it seems as if I had known such a face sometime, but maybe it is only a dream."

Thus the summer passed, and autumn came. September brought dreamily brilliant days, the sun drew the aromatic odors from the pines, the foothills fell back one upon the other in cool, blue folds, and the tops of the Sierras, white with snow, seemed to pierce the dome like a bowl above them. Hy Brown stood moodily in the doorway. He watched a hawk that hung poised in the sky, at the same time tipping his head to catch the gurgling noise of the small spring that bubbled up near the roots of an evergreen in front of the cabin. He turned to his companion: "Tomorrow I'm going to take a long hike along that ridge up yonder. I've always wanted to see what is on the other side. I may be gone over night." "Let me go with you." Rob's tone was eager. "I hardly think it best., It means slashing of underbrush, fording streams, and much hard plodding. Better stay with your paints and brushes. The mountain sprites will try to rob you of ambition, invisible hands will squeeze the thin air from your lungs and turn your warm blood into sizzling water. The roar in your ears will be louder than an overworked motor. Take my advice, and stay here." "Don't you remember that you told me when I first came that some day you would let me go with you up there? I've not forgotten." There was something indescribable about the expression in the young man's eyes. For a moment Brown hesitated: "Very well, Rob, but remember I've told you several times of the perilousness of such a climb. It means aching feet and bleeding fingers before we reach the top and God knows what else before we get back."

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A haze like Indian summer hung over the world, as they left the timber line and began the struggle toward the distant goal. The air, fresh and cool, filled the notches between the mountain tops with a rest-giving blueness. Boyishly Rob pitted himself against the law of gravitation stalking at their heels. Every few rods the altitude increased, gray mist and golden sunshine vied with each other as they climbed upward. The ragged shelf of basaltic rock, toward which they were journeying, grew nearer and nearer. As Hy was about to warn Rob not to trust the edge of any bank, a rumble of falling earth attracted his attention and when he turned to face his companion, he was nowhere in sight. A crevice a few feet away told the tale. Horror tightened his muscles, sweat spurted from his pores, and ran damp all over his body. Something whitened his face and made him gasp for breath. For a minute, a long, never-to-be-forgotten minute, he stood silent, inactive; then slowly he went and peered down into the gorge. With terror-filled eyes, he saw a gnarled tree several feet below from which protruded a long, single withered branch and over this witch-like arm hung a dangling figure. For another minute, he stood stock-still and almost breathless; then he quickly uncoiled a rope from his waist and tried to drop the noose over the body. In his excitement he had been unconscious of gathering clouds. He started and shivered as the wind wailed, the hills echoed its cry with a howl so awful that he drew back in fright. With no further warning the rain fell in torrents, drenching him to the skin. The water ran down his sleeves and turned his hands purple with cold. At last, after many attempts, the rope caught Rob midway between hips and shoulders. New born streams were tumbling down the mountain side, making the work of rescue more difficult every moment. Back of him something roared, small shrubs, root upwards, swept past him; the rock against which he braced his feet gave a lurch forward. He dug his heels more firmly into the soft earth, tightened his hold on the slippery rope and prayed for strength. The cloud-burst ended the storm. Hy wormed his way backward inch by inch until he could make the rope fast around a boulder. Once again he looked down into the gulch; at the bottom raced an angry flood, dotted with uprooted trees and broken branches. Grasping the wet rope, he began the delicate task of pulling Rob up. Every minute seemed an eternity, the ground was soft.

The opening between the trees that gave a glimpse of the trail a quarter of a mile down the mountain side. The sun drew the aromatic odors from the pines. The foothills fell back one upon the other in cool, blue folds. The rugged shelf of basaltic rock toward which we were journeying drew n oarer and nearer.

a

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the body a dead weight and his hold on the rope uncertain, in the intensity of the situation Hy spoke aloud: "Help me, Lord, help me!" — He felt as if his heart stood still for an age then it beat with a dull, sharp pain. It was hard, heavy work, the perspi- — ration fell from his brow in great beads a twig snapped — rock rolled past him and lost itself in the rushing waters below. — — He was growing sick dizzy from stooping and straining "Help, O Lord, help! Give me strength, give me strength," again he spoke aloud. As if in answer to his call, there came a woman's voice: "Give me hand room, I can help." Hy gave a sidelong glance, a girl in outing dress stood at his side, white and tragic-eyed. She reached for the rope. With the strength of despair they pulled hand over hand, slowly, carefully, until at last they lifted the limp form over the side of the gorge. They laid him with his dark face upturned to the shifting clouds. — His hair was wet and matted his clothing foul with the clay of the bank, but he was breathing. Every nerve in Hy's body was set tingling as the girl staggered and cried: "My heavens, my heavens!" She dropped to her knees, her features seemed to stiffen and her face lose its youthful curves. "He is chilled through; help me rub him, quick." She began to work feverishly, desperately. "I'm afraid," she whispered, with a shudder, "I'm afraid we won't succeed." "Yes, we will; everything will come right; he's only stunned," Hy replied. "The soft bank and the notched tree saved him." Rob moaned and opened his eyes —turned over on his side —put his hands on the earth and stood up, slow but certain. Then passed what seemed a century. His brain reeled. A dull, booming rushed by. He felt something snap in his head. He turned his face toward the white-cheeked girl, gave a gasp and put out a trembling hand: "Helen!" She uttered a low, glad cry, as she took his outstretched fingers. They looked at each other for a motionless, deep- — — breathing moment her eyes still intent his haunted by shadows. "Thank God, I came up with the club to climb Mt. Graybeck, my prayers are answered, I've found Robert Henry." There was something like a sob in her voice. Hy Brown's jaw jerked, in a way it had when he was — startled for it was then, as he caught the light on her face that he recalled the panel picture. "I see it, I see it!" His voice was thick. He took a step

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forward: "I know you now, you are the girl of the panel picture!" Rob Henry brushed his hand across his forehead, passed his other arm around the girl, and turned to the older man: "Yes, Hy, I remember now. A tumble long ago closed a valve in my brain. The one today has jarred it open. Helen is the girl of my panel picture." The afternoon shadows were lengthening; over the distant peak of old Graybeck, a faint tinge of purple and gold hung like a softly draped veil. As Hy Brown breathed the odors of the fresh-washed earth, a silent prayer went up from his heart that happiness would abide with Robert Henry and the girl of the panel picture. San Diego, Cal.

Why Baptism? By Joseph S. Peery

A guide on Temple Block held a company of tourists for a few minutes outside the Tabernacle at the west end and remarked, "These steps lead to a room where there is a beautiful white marbel baptismal font. We baptize by immersion for the remission of sins." A young lady in the company spoke up. "Why baptism?" The guide answered, "The only reason I know is because the Savior said so, and I believe he meant what he said. He told Nicodemus (John 3:5) 'Except a man be born of water and of :

the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.' Cannot means cannot. Certainly the Savior has the right to prescribe the initiation necessary to enter his own kingdom. You gentlemen who belong to societies in the world had to follow the initiations prescribed to enter therein. The spiritual world, as well as the physical, is governed by law, and only through obedience to divine law, by being 'born again,' may we even 'see the kingdom of God.' (John 3:3.) To fulfil divine law, even the perfect Savior was baptized and his last words to his disciples before his ascension into heaven were to 'preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved.' (Mark 16:16.) This shows that belief alone is not sufficient. James reminds us that faith without works is dead. It takes both' faith and works to be saved." "We claim for our Priesthood the divine authority to baptize in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. How do we get it? It is the authority that counts. Paul says, 'No man taketh this honor unto himself, but he that is