ave been--a change had come over her. There was a glad
tranquillity about her now which was as a tonic to him. She was no longer
given to dark utterances which he could not understand. She was devoted to
him in a gentle, almost maternal fashion--studying his needs and moods
alertly and affectionately. Something of the old tempestuous ardor was
gone, but that, of course, was natural. Harboro did not know the phrases
of old Antonia or he would have said: "It is the time of embers." She was
softly solicitous for him; still a little wistful at times, to be sure;
but then that was the natural Sylvia. It was the quality which made her
more wonderful than any other woman in the world.

And Sylvia? Sylvia had found a new avenue of escape from that tedium which
the Sylvias of the world have never been able to endure.

Not long after that ride to the Quemado a horse had been brought to her
front gate during a forenoon when Harboro was over the river at work.
Unassisted she had mounted it and ridden away out the Quemado Road. A mile
out she had turned toward the Rio Grande, and had kept to an indistinct
trail until she came to a hidden _adobe_ hut, presided over by an ancient
Mexican.

To this isolated place had come, too, Runyon--Runyon, whose dappled horse
had been left hidden in the mesquite down by the river, where the man's
duties lay.

And here, in undisturbed seclusion, they had continued that intimacy which
had begun on the night of the norther. They were like two children,
forbidden the companionship of each other, who find something particularly
delicious in an unguessed rendezvous. All that is delightful in a
temporary escape from the sense of responsibility was theirs. Their
encounters were as gay and light as that of two poppies in the sun, flung
together by a friendly breeze. They were not conscious of wronging any
one--not more than a little, at least--though the ancient genius of the
place, a Mexican who had lost an eye in a jealous fight in his youth, used
to shake his head sombrely when he went away from his hut, leaving them
alone; and there was anxiety in the glance of that one remaining eye as he
kept a lookout over the trail, that his two guests might not be taken by
surprise.

Sometimes they remained in the hut throughout the entire noon-hour, and on
these occasions their finely discreet and taciturn old host placed food
before them. Goat's milk was brought from an earthenware vessel having its
place on