ed away abruptly and left the room. But as he was quietly making
his way out of the house, hoping to get to his horse unobserved, he came
suddenly upon Mrs. Dyke and Sidney on the porch of the house. He had
forgotten that since the affair at the ditch, Los Muertos had been a
home to the engineer's mother and daughter.

"And you, Mrs. Dyke," he asked as he took her hand, "in this break-up of
everything, where do you go?"

"To the city," she answered, "to San Francisco. I have a sister there
who will look after the little tad."

"But you, how about yourself, Mrs. Dyke?"

She answered him in a quiet voice, monotonous, expressionless:

"I am going to die very soon, Mr. Presley. There is no reason why I
should live any longer. My son is in prison for life, everything is over
for me, and I am tired, worn out."

"You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Dyke," protested Presley, "nonsense;
you will live long enough to see the little tad married." He tried to
be cheerful. But he knew his words lacked the ring of conviction. Death
already overshadowed the face of the engineer's mother. He felt that
she spoke the truth, and as he stood there speaking to her for the last
time, his arm about little Sidney's shoulder, he knew that he was seeing
the beginnings of the wreck of another family and that, like Hilda
Hooven, another baby girl was to be started in life, through no fault of
hers, fearfully handicapped, weighed down at the threshold of existence
with a load of disgrace. Hilda Hooven and Sidney Dyke, what was to be
their histories? the one, sister of an outcast; the other, daughter of
a convict. And he thought of that other young girl, the little Honora
Gerard, the heiress of millions, petted, loved, receiving adulation from
all who came near to her, whose only care was to choose from among
the multitude of pleasures that the world hastened to present to her
consideration.

"Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Sidney."

He kissed the little girl, clasped Mrs. Dyke's hand a moment with his;
then, slinging his satchel about his shoulders by the long strap with
which it was provided, left the house, and mounting his horse rode away
from Los Muertos never to return.

Presley came out upon the County Road. At a little distance to his left
he could see the group of buildings where once Broderson had lived.
These were being remodelled, at length, to suit the larger demands of
the New Agriculture.