eard them enter, and when she knew
that he was not there a feeling which was half resentment, half
accusation, rose within her. Was she to be disappointed in him at last?
Had he no more strength in the happy light of his new fortune than to go
out and "celebrate," as she had heard the sergeant confidentially
charging to Horace, like any low fellow in the sweating throng?

But this thought she put away from her with humiliation and self-reproach,
knowing, after the first flash of vexation, that it was unjust. Her fears
rose towering and immense again; in the silence of the graying morning
she shivered, drawing her cold feet up into the cot to listen and wait.

Walker and Bentley had gone quietly to bed, and in the stillness around
her there was an invitation to sleep. But for her there was no sleep in
all that night's allotment.

The roof of the tent toward the east grew transparent against the sky.
Soon the yellow gleam of the new sun struck it, giving her a sudden warm
moment of hope.

It is that way with us. When our dear one lies dying; when we have
struggled through a night hideous with the phantoms of ruin and
disgrace, then the dawn comes, and the sun. We lift our seamed faces to
the bright sky and hope again. For if there is still harmony in the
heavens, how can the discord of the earth overwhelm us? So we comfort
our hearts, foolishly exalting our troubles to the plane of the eternal
consonance.

The sun stood "the height of a lance" when Agnes slipped quietly to the
door of the tent. Over the gray desert lands a smoky mist lay low.
Comanche, stirring from its dreams, was lighting its fires. Here passed
one, the dregs of sleep upon him, shoulders bent, pail in hand, feet
clinging heavily to the road, making toward the hydrant where the green
oats sprang in the fecund soil. There, among the horses in the lot
across the way, another growled hoarsely as he served the crowding
animals their hay.

Agnes looked over the sagging tent-roofs with their protruding
stovepipes and wondered what would be revealed if all were swept
suddenly away. She wondered what fears besides her own they covered,
silent in the pure light of day. For Comanche was a place of secrets and
deceits.

She laid a fire in the tin stove and put the kettle on to boil. Horace
Bentley and Milo Strong were stirring within the tent, making ready for
the stage, which departed for Meander at eight.

Mrs. Mann, the miller's wife, came out softly,