ter, but at length I stood near the lonely public,
where no name of guest is ever asked, and no bill ever paid. And then I
fell to musing on how many life-histories these grey walls had sheltered
for a fitful hour, how many stumbling wayfarers had eaten and drunken in
this Hotel of Refuge. I dropped my glances on the ground; a bird, newly
dead, lay at my feet, killed by the heat.

At that moment I heard a child's crying. I started forward, then
faltered. Why, I could not tell, save that the crying seemed so a part
of the landscape that it might have come out of the sickly sunset, out
of the yellow sky, out of the aching earth about me. To follow it might
be like pursuing dreams. The crying ceased.

Thus for a moment, and then I walked round to the door of the hut. At
the sound of slight moaning I paused again. Then I crossed the threshold
resolutely.

A woman with a child in her arms sat on a rude couch. Her lips were
clinging to the infant's forehead. At the sound of my footsteps she
raised her head.

"Ah!" she said, and, trembling, rose to her feet. She was fair-haired
and strong, if sad, of face. Perhaps she never had been beautiful, but
in health her face must have been persistent in its charm. Even now it
was something noble.

With that patronage of compassion which we use towards those who are
unfortunate and humble, I was about to say to her, "My poor woman!" but
there was something in her manner so above her rude surroundings that I
was impelled to this instead: "Madam, you are ill. Can I be of service
to you?"

Then I doffed my hat. I had not done so before, and I blushed now as
I did it, for I saw that she had compelled me. She sank back upon the
couch again as though the effort to achieve my courtesy had unnerved
her, and she murmured simply and painfully: "Thank you very much: I have
travelled far."

"May I ask how far?"

"From Mount o' Eden, two hundred miles and more, I think"; and her eyes
sought the child's face, while her cheek grew paler. She had lighted
a tiny fire on the hearthstone and had put the kettle on the wood. Her
eyes were upon it now with the covetousness of thirst and hunger. I
kneeled, and put in the tin of water left behind by some other pilgrim,
a handful of tea from the same source--the outcast and suffering giving
to their kind. I poured out for her soon a little of the tea. Then I
asked for her burden. She gave it to my arms--a wan, wise-faced child.

"Madam," I said, "I