"But the gown?" I said. "Surely, you
do not gather gowns like that in river-beds,
or pick them off mountain-pines?"

"But you can get them in Denver. Father
always sent to Denver for my finery. He
was very particular about how I looked.
You see, I was all he had --" She broke
off, her voice faltering.

"Come over by the window," I said, to
change her thought. "I have something to
repeat to you. It is a song of Sydney
Lanier's. I think he was the greatest poet
that ever lived in America, though not
many agree with me. But he is my dear
friend anyway, though he is dead, and I
never saw him; and I want you to hear
some of his words."

I led her across to an open window. The
dancers were whirling by us. The waltz
was one of those melancholy ones which
speak the spirit of the dance more elo-
quently than any merry melody can. The
sound of the sea booming beyond in the
darkness came to us, and long paths of
light, now red, now green, stretched toward
the distant light-house. These were the