Bruce of the Circle A. Titus Harold

occasionally, growing more absorbed in studying the woman, until, during their last hour together, he was in a fever to be away from her where he could think straight of all that had happened since night came to Yavapai.

      Before he left he said:

      "Probably nobody will ask you questions, but if they do just say that your husband went away before daylight an' that I left after I washed his arm out. That'll be the truth an' what folks don't know won't hurt 'em ... nor make you uncomfortable by havin' 'em watch you an' do a lot of unnecessary talkin'."

      From her window Ann watched Bayard emerge from the doorway below and place the limp figure of his burden on the seat of the buckboard he had secured for the trip home. In the starlight she saw him knot the bridle reins of his sorrel over the saddle horn, heard him say, "Go home, Abe," and saw the splendid beast stride swiftly off into the night alone. Then, the creak of springs as he, too, mounted the wagon, his word to the horses, the sounds of wheels, and she thought she saw him turn his face toward her window as he rounded the corner of the hotel.

      The woman stood a moment in the cold draught of the wind that heralded dawn. It was as though something horrible had gone out of her life and, at the same time, as if something wonderful had come in; only, while the one left the heaviness, the other brought with it a sweet sorrow. Half aloud she told herself that; then cried:

      "No, it can't be! Nothing has gone; nothing has come. Things are as they were ... or worse...."

      Then, she turned to her hard, lumpy bed.