Then he walked around his place, planning the work he meant to
start at once.
Several days slipped by with Slone scarcely realizing how they flew.
Unaccustomed labor tired him so that he went to bed early and slept like a
log. If it had not been for the ever-present worry and suspense and longing,
in regard to Lucy, he would have been happier than ever he could remember.
Almost at once he had become attached to his little home, and the more he
labored to make it productive and comfortable the stronger grew his
attachment. Practical toil was not conducive to daydreaming, so Slone felt a
loss of something vague and sweet. Many times he caught himself watching with
eager eyes for a glimpse of Lucy Bostil down there among the cottonwoods.
Still, he never saw her, and, in fact, he saw so few villagers that the place
began to have a loneliness which endeared it to him the more. Then the view
down the gray valley to the purple monuments was always thrillingly memorable
to Slone. It was out there Lucy had saved his horse and his life.
Pages:
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376