o him of a thousand days like this which lay like roses in
bud. He watched with growing awe the supple movement of her body, the
tender arch of her neck, and the clear surface of her features ever
alive with the quick expression of her eager thoughts. She caught his
gaze once and colored prettily but without lowering her eyes.

"You belong out here," he exclaimed. "This is where you should live."

"And you?"

"I was born in just such surroundings."

"Why did you leave them? Men are so free."

"Free?"

The word startled him.

"Men are not limited by either time or place," she avowed.

Time? Time was an ugly word. His face grew serious.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I am just beginning to learn what
freedom is."

"And it is?"

"Like everything else when carried to an extreme--a paradox. Freedom
is slavery--to something, to someone."

"Then you are a slave?" she laughed.

"As I thought freedom, I am the freest man on earth to-day."

"You speak that like a king."

"Or a slave."

She puzzled over this a moment as she tried to keep up with him. He
had suddenly increased his pace.

"Even on your vacation, you could n't be absolutely free, could you? I
feel responsible for that," she apologized.

"You need n't, for you have given me this bit of road. It is the most
beautiful thing I have ever seen."

So he turned her away from the subject and breathed more easily. She
had both loosed him and shackled him. What a procession of golden days
she made him see, if only as a mirage. Freedom? If only he could
return to that little office and drudge for her unceasingly--toil and
hack and hew at stubborn fortune merely in the consciousness that she
was somewhere in the world, that would be freedom. He knew it now as
she walked close beside him like a beautiful dream. There was no use
longer in parrying or feinting. The brush of her sleeve made him
dizzy; the sound of her voice set the whole world to music. How
trivial seemed the barriers which had loomed so formidable before him a
day ago. Given the opportunities he had thrown away and he would hew a
path to her as straight as a prairie railroad bed. He would do this,
remaining true to his old dreams and to better dreams. He would face
New York and tear a road through the very centre of it. He would ram
every steel-tipped ideal to its black heart. And all the inspiration
he needed to give him this power was the knowledge that somewhere