ll sit by its mate and mourn...."

Harboro gazed at the man on the bench. His face moved strangely, as a dark
pool will stir from the action of an undercurrent. He could not speak for
a moment, and then he called back in a voice like a cry: "I thank you."

"You are welcome--brother!" was the response. The man on the bench was
smiling. He coughed a little, and wondered if the open-air treatment the
physician had prescribed might not prove a bit heroic. When he looked
about him again his late companion was gone.

Harboro was hurrying down toward the Rio Grande bridge. He was trying to
put a curb on his emotions, on his movements. It would never do for him to
hurry through the streets of Eagle Pass like a madman. He must walk
circumspectly.

He was planning for the future. He would take Sylvia away--anywhere. They
would begin their married life anew. He would take her beyond the ordinary
temptations. They would live in a tent, an igloo, in the face of a cliff.
He would take her beyond the reach of the old evil influences, where he
could guide her back to the paths she had lost. He would search out some
place where there was never a dun horse with golden dapples, and a rider
who carried himself like a crier of God, carrying glad tidings across the
world.

Yet he was never conscious of the manner in which he made that trying
journey. He was recalled to self when he reached his own door. He realized
that he was somewhat out of breath. The night had fallen and the house
revealed but little light from the front. Through the door he could see
that the dining-room was lighted. He tried the door stealthily and entered
with caution. It would not do to startle Sylvia.

Ah--that was her voice in the dining-room. The telephone bell had sounded,
just as he opened the door, and she was responding to the call.

Her voice seemed cold at first: "I didn't catch the name." And then it
turned to a caress: "Oh, Mendoza--I didn't hear at first. Of course, I
want to see you." There was now a note of perplexity in her tone, and
then: "No, don't come here. It would be better for me to see you at my
father's. In the afternoon."

Harboro found himself leaning against the wall, his head in his hands.
Mendoza! The town's notorious philanderer, who had regarded Sylvia with
insolent eyes that night out at the Quemado! Yes, and she had danced with
him the minute his back was turned; danced with him with unconcealed joy.
Mendoza....

He climbed