Pinehurst said the East was full of little obstacles, and people's eyes had sucked all the secrets out of the horizon, he said.

I like Cape Cod, but he said there was always a wall of sea round those flat wet places.

We stayed in a blacksmith's spare room on the desert of Wyoming, but even that horizon seemed a little higher than we, and one clear day, in a pink sunrise, we saw something that might have been a dream, my dears, and might have been the Rockies.

Pinehurst couldn't stand that, we pushed west--so tahsome.

We climbed a little narrow track up a mountain, in a light buggy that a goldminer lent us.