A less vivid imagination than Helen's would have found a tang of
ghostliness in the night. The crest of the ridge over which they had
come through the dusk now showed silvery white; white also were some
dead branches of desert growth--they looked like bones. Always through
the intense silence stirred an indistinguishable breath like a shiver.
Individual bushes assumed grotesque shapes; when she looked long and
intently at one she began to fancy that it moved. She scoffed at
herself, knowing that she was lending aid to tricking her own senses,
yet her heart beat a wee bit faster. She gave her mind to large
considerations: those of infinity, as her eyes were lifted heavenward
and dwelt upon the brightest star; those of life and death, and all of
the mystery of mysteries. She went to sleep struggling with the
ancient problem: 'Do the dead return? Are there, flowing about us,
weird, supernatural influences as potent and intangible as electric
currents?' In her sleep she continued her interesting investigations,
but her dreaming vision explained the evening's problem by showing her
the camp-fire made, the bacon and coffee set thereon, by a very nice
young man with splendid eyes.

She stirred, smiled sleepily, and lay again without moving; after the
fashion of one awakening she clung to the misty frontiers of a fading
dream-country. She breathed deeply, inhaling the freshness of the new
dawn. Then suddenly her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a little
cry; a man who would have fitted well enough into any fancy-free
maiden's dreams was standing close to her side, looking down at her.
Helen's hands flew to her hair.

Plainly--she read that in the first flashing look--he was no less
astounded than she. At the moment he made a picture to fill the eye