the morning?"

"I should think so," replied the little man; "we will ask her." To Polly's
disappointment, the talk passed on to the revolution and other political
subjects, and nothing more was said about the mysterious guest. "If
they're going to tack a Mexican refugee to me, they might at least tell me
something about her!" she thought.

In the meantime, Hard had entered the living-room and was examining the
contents of the wood-box.

"Empty, of course!" he said, with a smile. "The household is quite
evidently off its balance." He went out through the kitchen and returned
in a few minutes with a basket of logs from the wood-pile. As he
re-entered the living-room, a woman--a tall, slender, graceful woman, with
black hair and eyes, entered it from the hall. There was a moment's
silence and then the basket of wood dropped crashingly from Hard's arms.
The woman smiled.

"Henry!" she exclaimed, coming forward, both hands outstretched. "Henry! I
heard your voice--I'd have known it anywhere, even if Victor hadn't told
me that you lived near here. You haven't changed one bit in--how many
years is it since I saw you?"

"Fifteen years, six months, and twenty-seven days, Clara," replied the
tall Bostonian, taking her hands and leading her to the light. Something
in her easy, friendly manner had softened both the shock of the surprise
and the embarrassment of the situation. He looked long into her face and
then dropped her hands. She sank into a chair by the fireplace.

"It is a long time, isn't it?" she said, smiling.

"No one would think so to look at you," said Hard, sincerely. "You are the
same Clara Mallory who went to Paris fifteen years ago to study music." He
picked up the basket of wood and proceeded to build the fire. She watched
him, her eyes misty.

"Well, it's odd that I haven't changed for I've been through a lot," she
said, with a little smile. "And you?"

"Just the same easy-going, good-for-nothing chap, I reckon," replied
Hard.

"But this mining business? But, of course, you were educated for it at the
Tech----"

"Yes, without much idea of using it."

"But, being a Hard, you weren't contented with doing nothing," said Mrs.
Conrad. "You know why I'm here, I suppose?"

"No. Herrick told me some time ago that you were living down near Mexico
City--and that Dick Conrad had died, and how."

Mrs. Conrad was silent for a moment. "Two years ago," she said, quietly.
"While he lived, we managed to hold do