tlessly
dressed, fair-faced stranger who awed everybody by not seeing them, but
whose very daintiness and beauty drew them hungrily to her. Nobody could
be in Jerry Swaim's presence and not feel the spell of her inherent
magnetism.

The laughter and complaints of the passengers dulled down to endurance.
Only the face of the short man wore a smile. But his mouth was made with
that kind of a curve, and he couldn't help it. Breathing deeply and
perspiring healthfully, he sat against the heat streaming into his side
of the car, and forgot his troubles in his unbreakable good nature. For
a long time he and Thelma had talked across the aisle above and through
the train's noises. Their talk was all of Paul and Joe's place, and the
crops; of how glad Thelma was to be at home again on Paul's account; and
how long it would take her yet if the alfalfa and wheat turned out well.

Jerry heard it all without knowing it, as she looked at the monotonous
landscape without knowing it. And then the dry prairies began to deepen
to a richer hue. Yellow wheat-fields and low-growing corn and stretches
of alfalfa broke into the high plains where cattle grazed. And then came
the gleam of a river, sometimes shallow along sandy levels, sometimes
deep, with low overhanging brush on either side. And there were
cottonwood-trees and low twisted elms and scrubby locust and oak
saplings, and the faint, fresh scent of moisture livening the air.

The train jerked itself to a standstill, thought better of it, and
hunched along again for a rod or two, then jostled itself quiet again.

Jerry was very drowsy now, but she was conscious of hearing the fat man
calling out, cheerfully:

"Home at last, Thelmy. There's Paul waiting for you. Well, good-by."

And of Thelma's "Good-by" in a louder tone than was necessary. Of more
strutting and bowing and no end of luggage clearing itself away.

Through the window Jerry caught sight of a tall, fair-haired boy, who
looked like Thelma, except that in his white face was the pathos of the
life-cripple. She saw Thelma kiss him, and then the two started down the
sunny, cindery side-track together. In the distance, close to the river,
there was a small plain house under a big cottonwood-tree. The glimpse
of red about a little porch meant that the crimson ramblers were in
bloom there. Oh, the roses of "Eden," and the cool rose-arbor! Jerry
must have dreamed then, for "Eden" was about her again. Through it the
limping g