such. And now a minor note, as thin as a low-toned human voice heard
faintly through the deep music of a cathedral organ, something seemed
to call to him telling him again of these things.

The darkening line where the far-away hills in the south were dragged
deeper and deeper into the night drew his wandering thoughts away from
himself and sent them skimming after the girl he had seen that day.
Somewhere out there she was moving across the desert, plunged into the
innermost circle of the grim solitude. He remembered her eyes and the
look he had seen in them. He could see her again as she jerked in her
plunging horse, as she caught the step of the swiftly moving train.
The desert had called her; and she, purposeful, strong, as clean of
soul, he felt, as she was of body, had answered the call. With the
compelling desire to know her springing full-grown from his first
swift interest in her, his fancies, touched by the subtle magic of the
desert, showed her to him out yonder with the dusk and the silence
about her. He got to his feet and stood staring into the gathering
gloom as though he would make out across the flat miles the flying
buckboard.

"After all," he told himself, with a restless, half-reckless little
laugh, "why not?"

He turned and went back toward the town. On his way he overtook a boy,
a little fellow of eight or nine, driving a milk-cow ahead of him. He
found him the shy, wordless child he had expected, but chatted with
him none the less, and by the time they had reached the first of the
scattered buildings the boy had thawed a little and responded to
Conniston's talk. After the brief, somewhat uncomfortable lonesomeness
of a moment ago Conniston found himself glad of any company. And upon