The things that filled the days of her father and mother, and the days of her neighbors and friends, had filled her days.

The things that were all in all to those she loved had been all in all to her.

And always, through those years, from her earliest childhood to her young womanhood, there was Phil, her playmate, schoolmate, protector, hero, slave.

That Phil should be her boy sweetheart and young man lover had seemed as natural to Kitty as her relation to her parents.

There had never been anyone else but Phil.
There never could be--she was sure, in those days--anyone else.
In Kitty's heart that afternoon, as she rode, so indifferent to the life that called from every bush and tree and grassy hill and distant mountain, there was sweet regret, deep and sincere, for those years that were now, to her, so irrevocably gone.