skin of her face--slightly tanned--indicating health--was as
foreign to her present surroundings as life is foreign to the desert. In
her direct eyes was the glow of sturdy honesty that had instantly
antagonized the slattern who had attended her.

That glow was not so pronounced now--it was dulled by anxiety as she
looked out of the window, watching the desert light fade as twilight
came, blotting the hot sand from her sight, erasing the straight,
unfeatured horizon, and creating a black void which pulsed with mystery.

She sighed when at last she could no longer penetrate the wall of
darkness; got up and moved her chair to one of the front windows, from
where she could look down into Lamo's one street.

Lamo's lights began to flicker; from the town's buildings sounds began to
issue--multisonous, carrying the message of ribaldry unrestrained.

From a point not very far away came the hideous screeching of a fiddle,
accompanied by a discordant, monotonous wail, as of someone singing a
song unfamiliar to him; from across the street floated a medley of other
noises, above which could be heard the jangling music of a heavily
drummed piano. There came to her ears coarse oaths and the maudlin
laughter of women.

She had heard it all the night before; but tonight it seemed that
something had been added to the volume of it. And as on the night before,
she sat at the window, watching--for it was all new and strange to
her--even if unattractive. But at last the horror of it again seized her,
and she closed the window, determined to endure the increased heat.

Half an hour later, lying, fully dressed, on the bed, she heard a voice
in the hallway beyond the closed door of her room--a man's voice.

"It isn't what one might call elegant," said the voice; "but if it's the
best you've got--why, of course, it will have to do."

The girl sat straight up in bed, breathless, her face paling.

"It's Luke Deveny!" she gasped in a suffocating whisper.

The man's voice was answered by a woman's--low, mirthful. The girl in the
room could not distinguish the words. But the man spoke again--in a
whisper which carried through the thin board partition to the girl:

"Barbara Morgan is in there--eh?" he said and the girl could almost see
him nodding toward her room.

This time the girl heard the woman's voice--and her words:

"Yes she's there, the stuck-up hussy!"

The voice was that of the slattern.

The man laughed jeeringly.

"Je