"And do you love the silence of the open places?" asked Roger Patterson softly.
"Yes," said she wistfully. "I have loved the great outdoors all my life."
"You would love the desert," he whispered dreamily. "As I close my eyes, I can see you now, my little dream-girl of the desert, back in the great silent places where you belong. When we are married, if I can spare the time, we will go to Egypt and live alone in the desert for many months, until you tire of it."
"I often wonder whether anyone can ever tire of the desert," she mused. "It is ever the same, yet always different. There are no words that can describe the desert. One could live in it forever and never grow to understand it, never solve its wondrous silent mystery."
"Once," said he, "many years ago, I went to Persia, and at Shiraz, the Paris of the Far East, I heard a strangely lovely little legend which I have always remembered. It seems at one time there dwelt near Shiraz an old, sweet-tempered, lovable Syrian who wandered alone in the desert. As he travelled over the great billows of ever-changing sand he used to see visions of gardens of wondrous beauty, peopled by women of exquisite charm. There was one dream-girl in particular who used to come to him every night, as he sat alone out under the glorious canopy of stars. Her face was as soft as a rose, and as sweet as the most fragrant flower. Like a breath of love, she would creep to the side of the old, shrunken beggar, and press her soft warm lips to his brow. And at
