The sun, an hour high, but only just topping the greenish crests of the wheat, was streaming like the morning breeze through the open length of Tom Bent's workshed.

An exaggerated and prolonged shadow of the young inventor himself at work beside his bench was stretching itself far into the broken-down ranks of stalks towards the invisible road, and falling at the very feet of Rose Mallory as she emerged from them.
She was very pale, very quiet, and very determined.

The traveling mantle thrown over her shoulders was dusty, the ribbons that tied her hat under her round chin had become unloosed.

She advanced, walking down the line of shadow directly towards him.
"I am afraid I will have to trouble you once more," she said with a faint smile, which did not, however, reach her perplexed eyes.

"Could you give me any kind of a conveyance that would take me to San Jose at once ?" The young man had started at the rustling of her dress in the shavings, and turned eagerly.