m by your own great heart. But"--she turned
towards him and went on slowly, her voice fluctuating in little, steadying
pauses--"even if you were right, you might be generous; you might try to
imagine her side. Suppose she had not guessed his--need--of her; been able
to read, as you did, between the lines. Sometimes a woman waits to be
told. A proud woman does." She came back the few steps. "Beatriz
Weatherbee isn't the kind of woman you think she is. She has faults, of
course, but she has tried to make the best of her life. If she made a
mistake--or thought she had--no one else knew it. She braved it through.
She's been high-strung, too."

Tisdale put up his hand. "Don't say any more; don't try to excuse her to
me. It's of no use. Good night." But a few feet from the porch he stopped
to add, less grimly: "I should have said good morning. You see how that
pyramid stands out against that pale streak of horizon. There is only time
for a nap before sunrise. Day is breaking."

She was silent, but something in the intensity of her gaze, the unspoken
appeal that had also a hint of dread, the stillness of her small face,
white in the uncertain light when so lately he had seen it sparkle and
glow, brought him back.

"I've tired you out," he said. "I shouldn't have told you that story. But
this outlook to-night reminded me of that other canyon, and I thought it
might help to bridge over the time. There's nothing can tide one through
an unpleasant situation like hearing about some one who fared worse. And I
hadn't meant to go so far into details. I'm sorry," and he held out his
hand, "but it was your interest, sympathy, something about you, that drew
me on."

She did not answer directly. She seemed to need the moment to find her
voice and bring it under control. Then, "Any one must have been
interested," she said, and drew away her hand. "You have the
story-teller's gift. And I want to thank you for making it all so clear
to me; it was a revelation."

CHAPTER IX

THE DUNES OF THE COLUMBIA

Behind them, as Tisdale drove down, the heights they had crossed were
still shrouded in thunder-caps, but before them the end of the Wenatchee
range lifted clear-cut, in a mighty promontory, from the face of the
desert. Already the morning sun gave a promise of heat, and as the bays
rounded a knoll, Miss Armitage raised her hands to shade her eyes.

"What color!" she exclaimed. "How barbarous! How ages old! But don't say
this i