He turned his eyes to the house itself. It was a great, two-storied,
wide-verandaed building, with spacious doors, deep-curtained windows,
a tower rising above the red tiles of the roof at each corner,
everywhere the gleam of white columns. Each tower had its balconies,
and each balcony was guessed more than seen through the green and red
and white of clambering roses.

Midway between the broad front steps and the edge of the little toy
lake was a summer-house grown over with vines, its broad doorway
opening toward Conniston. And sitting within its shade, a book in her
lap, her gray eyes raised gravely to meet his, was the girl he had
seen on the Overland Limited. Conniston rode along a graveled walk
toward her, his hat in his hand.

"Good morning," she said, as he drew in his horse near her. "Won't you
get down?"

"Good morning."

He swung to the ground with no further invitation, his horse's reins
over his arm.

His eyes were as grave as hers, and he was glad, glad that he had
ridden here through the desert.

"You came to see my father?"

Conniston colored slightly. Why had he come? What was he going to do
now that he was here? How should he seek to explain? He hesitated a