y was he transferred? Come! What ails your tongue, Dolores?"

"Well, I keep my eyes open and my ears, too. I am no fool--" Dolores
paused doubtfully.

"Yes, yes!"

Dolores drew closer. "Rosa Morales--you know the girl? Her father works
the big pump-engine at the river. Well, he is not above anything, that
man; not above selling his own flesh and blood, and the girl is no
better. She thinks about nothing except men, and she attends all the
bailes for miles around, on both sides of the river. Panfilo loved her;
he was mad about her. That's why he came here to work."

"They were engaged, were they not?"

"Truly. And Panfilo was jealous of any man who looked at Rosa. Now you
can understand why--he was sent away." Dolores's sharp eyes narrowed
meaningly. "Senor Ed has been riding toward the river every day,
lately. Panfilo was furious, so--"

"I see! That is all I care to hear." Alone, Alaire stood motionless for
some time, her face fixed, her eyes unseeing; but later, when she met
her husband in the dining-room, her greeting was no less civil than
usual.

Ed acknowledged his wife's entrance with a careless nod, but did not
trouble to remove his hands from his pockets. As he seated himself
heavily at the table and with unsteady fingers shook the folds from his
napkin, he said:

"You stayed longer than you intended. Um-m--you were gone three days,
weren't you?"

"Four days," Alaire told him, realizing with a little inward start how
very far apart she and Ed had drifted. She looked at him curiously for
an instant, wondering if he really could be her husband, or--if he were
not some peculiarly disagreeable stranger.

Ed had been a handsome boy, but maturity had vitiated his good looks.
He was growing fat from drink and soft from idleness; his face was too
full, his eyes too sluggish; there was an unhealthy redness in his
cheeks. In contrast to his wife's semi-formal dress, he was
unkempt--unshaven and soiled. He wore spurred boots and a soft shirt;
his nails were grimy. When in the city he contrived to garb himself
immaculately; he was in fact something of a dandy; but at home he was a
sloven, and openly reveled in a freedom of speech and a coarseness of
manner that were sad trials to Alaire. His preparations for dinner this
evening had been characteristically simple; he had drunk three dry
cocktails and flung his sombrero into a corner.

"I've been busy while you were gone," he announced. "Been down to the
pump-