pariah of the prairies, as friendless and
alone as a leper. Then I thought of my children. And that cleared my
head, like a wind sweeping clean a smoky room.

"But a case has to be made out," I began. "It would have to be proved
that I----"

"There will be no difficulty on that point, Mrs. McKail," went on the
other woman as I came to a stop. "Provided the suit is not opposed."

The significance of that quietly uttered phrase did not escape me. Our
glances met and locked.

"There are the children," I reminded her. And she looked a very
commercialized young lady as she sat confronting me across her many
columns of figures.

"There should be no difficulty there--_provided_ the suit is not
opposed," she repeated with the air of a physician confronted by a
hypochondriacal patient.

"The children are mine," I rather foolishly proclaimed, with my first
touch of passion.

"The children are yours," she admitted. And about her hung an air of
authority, of cool reserve, which I couldn't help resenting.

"That is very generous of you," I admitted, not without ironic
intent.

She smiled rather sadly as she sat looking at me.

"It's something that doesn't rest with either of us," she said with
the suspicion of a quaver in her voice. And _she_, I suddenly
remembered, might some day sit eating her pot of honey on a grave. I
realized, too, that very little was to be gained by prolonging that
strangest of interviews. I wanted quietude in which to think things
over. I wanted to go back to my cell like a prisoner and brood over my
sentence....

And I have thought things over. I at last see the light. From this day
forward there shall be no vacillating. I am going back to Casa
Grande.

I have always hated this house; I have always hated everything about
the place, without having the courage to admit it. I have done my
part, I have made my effort, and it was a wasted effort. I wasn't even
given a chance. And now I shall gather my things together and go back
to my home, to the only home that remains to me. I shall still have my
kiddies. I shall have my Poppsy and--But sharp as an arrow-head the
memory of my lost boy strikes into my heart. My Dinkie is gone. I no
longer have him to make what is left of my life endurable....

It is raining to-night, I notice, steadily and dismally. It is a dark
night, outside, for lost children....

Duncan has just come home, wet and muddy, and gone up to his room. The
gray-faced solemnity