Glenn complimented her riding as well as her rosy cheeks.

There was indeed a sweetness in working at a task as she had worked to learn to ride in Western fashion.

Every turn of her mind seemed to confront her with sobering antitheses of thought.

Why had she come to love to ride down a lonely desert road, through ragged cedars where the wind whipped her face with fragrant wild breath, if at the same time she hated the West?
Could she hate a country, however barren and rough, if it had saved the health and happiness of her future husband?
Verily there were problems for Carley to solve.
Early twilight purple lay low in the hollows and clefts of the canyon.
Over the western rim a pale ghost of the evening star seemed to smile at Carley, to bid her look and look.

Like a strain of distant music, the dreamy hum of falling water, the murmur and melody of the stream, came again to Carley's sensitive ear.
"Do you love this ?" asked Glenn, when they reached the green-forested canyon floor, with the yellow road winding away into the purple shadows.
"Yes, both the ride--and you," flashed Carley, contrarily.