must fill full the measure of my dreams." He was looking away through
the pine-trees to the sky far beyond; but the soft light in his face
came not from that far-off tent of blue. He was thinking vaguely how
much bluer than the sky were her eyes.

"Yes?" Her tone was tender.

"She must be a beauty, of course." He gazed at her with that in his eyes
which said, as plainly as words could have said it, "You are
beautiful."

But she was looking away, wondering to herself who it might be.

"I mean she must have what _I_ call beauty," he added by way of
explanation. "I don't count mere red and white beauty. Phrony Tripper
has that." This was not without intention. Alice had spoken of Phrony's
beauty one day when she saw her at the school.

"But she is very pretty," asserted the girl, "so fresh and such color!"

"Oh, pretty! yes; and color--a wine-sap apple has color. But I am
speaking of real beauty, the beauty of the rose, the freshness that you
cannot define, that holds fragrance, a something that you love, that you
feel even more than you see."

She thought of a school friend of hers, Louise Caldwell, a tall,
statuesque beauty, with whom another friend, Norman Wentworth, was in
love, and she wondered if Keith would think her such a beauty as he
described.