as long, but it was not that which impressed him with the sense of
change. It was a certain girlish winsomeness, something elusive, which
cannot be defined, but which lends a charm like nothing else in all the
world to the sweet unfolding of early maidenhood.

If Phil had been asked to describe the girl that Mary would grow into,
he never would have pictured this development. He expected her desert
experiences to give her a strong forceful character. She would be like
the pioneer women of early times, he imagined; rugged and energetic and
full of resources. But he had not expected this gentleness of manner,
this unconscious dignity and a certain poise that reminded him of--he
was puzzled to think of what it _did_ remind him. Later, it came to him,
as he continued to watch her. Not for naught had Mary set up a shrine to
her idolized Princess Winsome and striven to grow like her in every way
possible. Not in feature, of course, but often in manner there was a
fleeting, shadowy undefinable something that recalled her.

In her younger days she would have appropriated Phil as her rightful
audience, and would have swung along beside him, amusing him with her
original and unsolicited opinions of everything they passed. But a
strange shyness seized her when she looked up and saw how much older he
was in reality than he had been in her recollections. She had no answer
ready when he began his accustomed teasing. Instead she clung to Joyce
when they left the street-car, leaving Betty to walk with Phil as they
threaded their way through the crowded thoroughfares. It was so good to
be with her again, and as they hurried along she squeezed the arm linked
in hers to emphasize her delight.

For the time, Joyce found no change in her, for with child-like abandon
she exclaimed over the strange sights. "Oh, Joyce! Snow!" she cried,