Phyllis leaned against the door-jamb and looked down the long road
which wound up from the valley and lost itself now and again in the
land waves. Miles away she could see a little cloud of dust
travelling behind the microscopic stage, which moved toward her
almost as imperceptibly as the minute-hand of a clock. A bronco was
descending the hill trail from the Flagstaff mine, and its rider
announced his coming with song in a voice young and glad. If the
girl heard, she heeded not. One might have guessed her a sullen,
silent lass, and would have done her less than justice. For the
storm in her eyes and the curl of the lip were born of a mood and
not of habit. They had to do with the gay vocalist who drew his
horse up in front of her and relaxed into the easy droop of the
experienced rider at rest.
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