These affairs made deep inroads upon Helen's
time, and so Pat was left pretty much to his own
reflections.

Yet he managed to fill the days to his satisfaction.
Standing in the stable, he loved to watch
the snow-capped mountains, and the tiny white
clouds scudding around them, and the mellow
radiance of golden sunlight streaming over them.
Also, gazing out of the little square window, he
spent long periods in viewing the hard brown of
the nearer mesaland -- the dips and dunes and
thread-like arroyos, with an occasional horseman
crawling between. Or else, when he found himself
yearning for his mistress, he would turn eyes
upon the house, and with lazy speculation regard
its sun-flecked windows, tightly shut doors, and
smoking chimneys, in the hope that she might
step forth. Then came more mild weather when
he would spend long hours outside the stable,
in his corner in the corral, there to renew his
silent vigil over nature and the house from this
vantage. Thus he filled his days, and found them
not so long as formerly in his babyhood, when
each hour was fraught with so many little things
that demanded his closest interest and attention.

Nights found him early at rest. But not all
nights. Nights there were when the house would
be lighted from cellar to garret, when spectral
forms would move in and out of doors, and when
shadows would flicker across drawn shades. Such
nights were always his nights, for he would hear
sounds of merriment, and voices lifted in song,

[[132]]

p131 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p132w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p133

v?