d. Only I'm dreadful sorry you're hurt, and I
can't help crying."

His broad, earnest face, languid from the opium and smiling with such
simple happiness, reassured her. She drew nearer to him and lifted his
hand to her knee. He looked at her with his clear, shallow blue eyes.
How he loved everything about that face and head! How many nights in his
cupola, looking up the track, he had seen that face in the darkness;
through the sleet and snow, or in the soft blue air when the moonlight
slept on the desert.

"You needn't bother to talk, Thee. The doctor's medicine makes me sort
of dopey. But it's nice to have company. Kind of cozy, don't you think?
Pull my coat under you more. It's a darned shame I can't wait on you."

"No, no, Ray. I'm all right. Yes, I like it here. And I guess you ought
not to talk much, ought you? If you can sleep, I'll stay right here, and
be awful quiet. I feel just as much at home with you as ever, now."

That simple, humble, faithful something in Ray's eyes went straight to
Thea's heart. She did feel comfortable with him, and happy to give him
so much happiness. It was the first time she had ever been conscious of
that power to bestow intense happiness by simply being near any one. She
always remembered this day as the beginning of that knowledge. She bent
over him and put her lips softly to his cheek.

Ray's eyes filled with light. "Oh, do that again, kid!" he said
impulsively. Thea kissed him on the forehead, blushing faintly. Ray held
her hand fast and closed his eyes with a deep sigh of happiness. The
morphia and the sense of her nearness filled him with content. The gold
mine, the oil well, the copper ledge--all pipe dreams, he mused, and
this was a dream, too. He might have known it before. It had always been
like that; the things he admired had always been away out of his reach:
a college education, a gentleman's manner, an Englishman's
accent--things over his head. And Thea was farther out of his reach than
all the rest put together. He had been a fool to imagine it, but he was
glad he had been a fool. She had given him one grand dream. Every mile
of his run, from Moonstone to Denver, was painted with the colors of
that hope. Every cactus knew about it. But now that it was not to be, he
knew the truth. Thea was never meant for any rough fellow like
him--hadn't he really known that all along, he asked himself? She wasn't
meant for common men. She was like wedding cake, a thing to dream