At a casual glance the vast plain seemed uninhabited, yet here and there
were men and horses, tiny in the vastness, but conquering. Here and
there also--for it was July--a haymaker sharpened his scythe, and the
sound came singing through the air radiant and stirring with life.
Seated in the shade of a clump of trees a girl sat with her chin in her
hands looking out over the prairie, an intense dreaming in her eyes. Her
horse was tethered near by, but it scarcely made a sound. It was a horse
which had once won a great race, with an Irish gentleman on his back.
Long time the girl sat absorbed, her golden colour, her brown-gold hair
in harmony with the universal stencil of gold. With her eyes drowned in
the distance, she presently murmured something to herself, and as she did
so the eyes deepened to a nameless umber tone, deeper than gold, warmer
than brown; such a colour as only can be found in a jewel or in a leaf
the frost has touched.
The frost had touched the soul which gave the colour to the eyes of the
girl. Yet she seemed all summer, all glow and youth and gladness. Her
voice was golden, too, and the words which fell from her lips were as
though tuned to the sound of falling water. The tone of the voice would
last when the gold of all else became faded or tarnished.
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