d would have excited fears for his health.

"Yet, maybe he is enjoying his rest more than the others," Jack told
Firio, who kept appearing at the window on some excuse or other. "Perhaps
he takes his happiness internally. Perhaps the external signs are only
the last stand of a lugubriousness driven out by overwhelming forces of
internal joy."

"_Si, si_!" said Firio.

"Firio, you are eminently a conversationalist," said Jack. "You agree
with any foolishness as if it were a new theory of ethics. You are an
ideal companion. I never have to listen to you in order that I may in
turn have my say."

"_Si_," said Firio. He leaned on the windowsill, his black eyes shining
with ingenuous and flattering appeal: "I will broil you a quail on a
spit," he whispered. "It's better than stove cooking."

"Don't talk of that!" Jack exclaimed, almost sharply. The suggestion
brought a swift change to sadness over his face and drew a veil of
vagueness over his eyes. "No, Firio, and I'll tell you why: the odor of a
quail broiled on a spit belongs at the end of a day's journey, when you
camp in sight of no habitation. You should sit on a dusty blanket-roll;
you should eat by the light of the embers or a guttering candle. No,
Firio, we'll wait till some other day. And it's not exactly courtesy to
our hostess to bring in provender from the outside."

The trail had apparently taught Firio all the moods of his master. He
knew when it was unwise to persist.

"_Si_!" he whispered, and withdrew.

Jack looked at Galeria and then back quickly, as if resisting its call.
He smiled half wryly and readjusted his position in the chair. Over the
hedge he could see the heads and shoulders of passers-by. Jim Galway had
come into the room, when Jasper Ewold's broad back and great head hove
in sight with something of the steady majesty of progress of a
full-rigged ship.

"The Doge!" Jack exclaimed, brightening.

Jim was taken unawares. Was it the name of a new kind of semi-tropical
fruit not yet introduced into Arizona?

"Not the Doge of Venice--hardly, when Mr. Ewold's love runs to Florence!
The Doge of Little Rivers!"

"Why, the Doge--of course!" Jim was "on" now and grinning. "I didn't
think of my history at first. That's a good one for Jasper Ewold!"

"O Doge of Little Rivers, I expected you in a gondola of state!" said
Jack, with a playfully grandiloquent gesture, as Jasper's abundance
filled the doorway. "But it is all the more compliment t