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"I fancy I know the feeling," he answered, gravely. "As for Paris, it holds little that I care for; but once, a few years ago, I was taken ill and the doctors said I wouldn't pull through. I didn't care so much about the mere dying, but the thought that I would never see the dawn on the mesas again, never again feel the warm breath of the Chinook on my face, was—hard. I suppose you feel that way about Paris."
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"Yes." She had dropped the hand
holding the brush and was gazing
thoughtfully past him. "Yes," she
repeated, softly, "that's the way I
feel about Paris. It was a year of
another life to me, a year of hard
work, but a dear, sweet one." Her
gaze wandered back to the canvas and,
with a little sigh, she took up her work
again.
