flight. Cartwell watched the girl keenly. Her pale face was very lovely
in the brilliant morning light, though the somberness of her wide, gray
eyes was deepened. That same muteness and patience in her trouble which
so touched other men touched Cartwell, but he only said:

"There never was anything bigger and finer than this open desert, was
there?"

Rhoda turned from staring at the distant mesas and eyed the young Indian
wonderingly.

"Why!" she exclaimed, "I hate it! You know that sick fear that gets you
when you try to picture eternity to yourself? That's the way this
barrenness and awful distance affects me. I hate it!"

"But you won't hate it!" cried Cartwell. "You must let me show you its
bigness. It's as healing as the hand of God."

Rhoda shuddered.

"Don't talk about it, please! I'll try to think of something else."

They drove in silence for some moments. Rhoda, her thin hands clasped in
her lap, resolutely stared at the young Indian's profile. In the unreal
world in which she drifted, she needed some thought of strength, some
hope beyond her own, to which to cling. She was lonely--lonely as some
outcast watching with sick eyes the joy of the world to which he is
denied. As she stared at the stern young profile beside her, into her
heart crept the now familiar thrill.