gray, wonderfully soft, transcendently serene. And through the
indescribable color as through untroubled skies at dawn there shone
the light which made her, in some way which he could not entirely
grasp, different from the women he had known. He merely felt that
their light was softly eloquent of frankness and health and cleanness.
Their gaze was as steady and confident as her hand had been upon her
horse's reins.

"She must have been born in this wilderness, raised in it!" he mused,
when she had passed. "Her eyes are the eyes of a glorious young
animal, bred to the freedom of outdoors, a part of the wild, untamable
desert! And her manner is like the manner of a great lady born in a
palace!"

"Hey, Greek," Roger was saying, his droning voice coming unpleasantly
into the other's musings, "did you pipe that? Did you ever see
anything like her?"

Conniston lighted a fresh cigarette and turned again to look out
across the level gray miles. Ignoring his friend, Greek thought on,
idly telling himself that the Dream Girl should be born out here,
after all. Here she would have a soul; a soul as far-reaching, as
infinite, as free from shackles of convention as the wide bigness of
her cradle. And she would have eyes like that, drawing their very
shade from the vague grayness which seemed to him to spread over
everything.

"I say, Greek," Roger was insisting, sufficiently interested to sit up
straight, his cigarette dangling from his lip, "that little country
girl, dressed like a wild Indian, is pretty enough to be the belle of