Not so Vanamee. For hours he roamed the countryside, now through the
deserted cluster of buildings that had once been Annixter's home;
now through the rustling and, as yet, uncut wheat of Quien Sabe! now
treading the slopes of the hills far to the north, and again following
the winding courses of the streams. Thus he spent the night.

At length, the day broke, resplendent, cloudless. The night was passed.
There was all the sparkle and effervescence of joy in the crystal
sunlight as the dawn expanded roseate, and at length flamed dazzling to
the zenith when the sun moved over the edge of the world and looked down
upon all the earth like the eye of God the Father.

At the moment, Vanamee stood breast-deep in the wheat in a solitary
corner of the Quien Sabe rancho. He turned eastward, facing the
celestial glory of the day and sent his voiceless call far from him
across the golden grain out towards the little valley of flowers.

Swiftly the answer came. It advanced to meet him. The flowers of the
Seed ranch were gone, dried and parched by the summer's sun, shedding
their seed by handfuls to be sown again and blossom yet another time.
The Seed ranch was no longer royal with colour. The roses, the lilies,
the carnations, the hyacinths, the poppies, the violets, the mignonette,
all these had vanished, the little valley was without colour; where once
it had exhaled the most delicious perfume, it was now odourless. Under
the blinding light of the day it stretched to its hillsides, bare,
brown, unlovely. The romance of the place had vanished, but with it had
vanished the Vision.

It was no longer a figment of his imagination, a creature of dreams that
advanced to meet Vanamee. It was Reality--it was Angele in the flesh,
vital, sane, material, who at last issued forth from the entrance of the
little valley. Romance had vanished, but better than romance was here.
Not a manifestation, not a dream, but her very self. The night was
gone, but the sun had risen; the flowers had disappeared, but strong,
vigorous, noble, the wheat had come.

In the wheat he waited for her. He saw her coming. She was simply
dressed. No fanciful wreath of tube-roses was about her head now, no
strange garment of red and gold enveloped her now. It was no longer
an ephemeral illusion of the night, evanescent, mystic, but a simple
country girl coming to meet her lover. The vision of the night had been
beautiful, but what was it compared to this? Reality was