dreamed of seeing her any place but New York again.

Well, this morning when I came up from below at the mine _she_ was
standing there as if she had been waiting for me. She is Miss Avice
Milbrey, of New York. Her father and mother--fine people, the real
thing, I judge--were with her, members of a party Rulon Shepler has
with him on his car. They've been here all day; went through the mine;
had lunch with them, and later a walk with _her_, they leaving at 5.30
for the East. We got on fairly well, considering. She is a wonder, if
anybody cross-examines you. She is about your height, I should judge,
about five feet four, though not so plump as you; still her look of
slenderness is deceptive. She's one of the build that aren't so big as
they look, nor yet so small as they look. Thoroughbred is the word for
her, style and action, as the horse people say, perfect. The poise of
her head, her mettlesome manner, her walk, show that she's been bred up
like a Derby winner. Her face is the one all the aristocrats are copied
from, finely cut nose, chin firm but dainty, lips just delicately full
and the reddest ever, and her colour when she has any a rose-pink. I
don't know that I can give you her eyes. You only see first that
they're deep and clear, but as near as anything they are the warm
slatish lavender blue you see in the little fall asters. She has so
much hair it makes her head look small, a sort of light chestnut, with
warmish streaks in it. Transparent is another word for her. You can
look right through her--eyes and skin are so clear. Her nature too is
the frank, open kind, "step in and examine our stock; no trouble to
show goods" and all that, and she is so beautifully unconscious of her
beauty that it goes double. At times she gave me a queer little
impression of being older at the game than I am, though she can't be a
day over twenty, but I guess that's because she's been around in
society so much. Probably she'd be called the typical New York girl, if