e right. At the end of a lonesome, laborious day she
saw it; and she hurried to it with a sort of homing instinct. Opening
the door, she gave a start and stepped back. Another's "things" were
in it. Now what should she do? It was a question with half a dozen
answers; and they all said, Go.

Just outside the door was a box with a hinged lid. It contained
kitchenware and supplies. There was the coffee-pot--and coffee. As
there was no one in sight (rolling ground is very deceptive), she
decided that, tired as she was and with the journey still before her,
this opportunity of rest and a comfortable supper, with plenty of
strong hot coffee, ought to be taken advantage of. Then, as soon as
supper was over, she would retire from the scene and consider what was
best to do. She would sit down and try her courage in the dark.
Possibly, under cover of night, she would come in closer to his
camp-fire and sit there on her slicker. Or maybe there would be two
men! But at present it was all undecidable, almost unthinkable; she
must take this little respite from being lost and try to make the most
of things.

The twigs of half-dried mesquite did not kindle readily. With fanning
and blowing the fire consumed a great deal of time and matches; but at
last it got itself into the spirit of burning. In the midst of these
preparations she heard the bark of a dog and a medley of _baas_, and
looking round the corner of the shack she saw that it was too late.

When Mr. Brown had recovered from his surprise and excused himself, she
became very industrious indeed, flitting about on the little space of
ground like a bird in a cage. Despite her confusion, her mother wit
was still with her, prompting her to cover her agitation with the
appearance of housewifely activity; so every time that she beat against
the bars of her situation she carried a fork or a spoon or the lid of
something. She set his place, fed the fire, put on more coffee. He
continued to work about the corral. Though the sight of him was not
quieting, she glanced up often enough to keep track of him. He seemed
to take his time.

Janet, partially blinded by too much attention to the fire, looked up
through the dusk as he went to the edge of the little gully and
descended. He was a "full fathom of a man," and as he sank from sight
his length seemed to go right down through the surface of things, like
Hamlet's father retiring to the lower regions. When, finally,