He could shut his eyes and see Jennie before him just as clearly as if she had stood there in the flesh.

For hours he did that, dreaming, dreaming of life he had never tasted and now never would taste.

He saw Jennie's slender, graceful figure, the old brown ragged dress in which he had seen her first at Bland's, her little feet in Mexican sandals, her fine hands coarsened by work, her round arms and swelling throat, and her pale, sad, beautiful face with its staring dark eyes.

He remembered every look she had given him, every word she had spoken to him, every time she had touched him.

He thought of her beauty and sweetness, of the few things which had come to mean to him that she must have loved him; and he trained himself to think of these in preference to her life at Bland's, the escape with him, and then her recapture, because such memories led to bitter, fruitless pain.