ke hands with the Warden in his haste
to get out on the road. There he stopped the first automobile that was
going up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest was
his manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine.
But at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to Murray,
Denver thanked him and got off to walk. The sun was low but he did not
hurry--he had begun to doubt his welcome. A hot shame swept over him at
his convict's shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wondered
suddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mine
away. She was an opera singer now, returning from a season which must
have given her a taste of success--what use would she have for him?

Up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp had
sprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down on
Pinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. The street was broad
and empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across the
creek; and from the chimney of Bunker's house a column of smoke mounted
up to show that supper was being cooked. Yes, it was the same old town
that he had entered the year before when Old Bunk had taken him for a
hobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon had
restored him to citizenship. His broad shoulders drooped, he turned back
and crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave.

The door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out of
sight. Bunker Hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things,
and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept and
the dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. It was Mrs.
Hill's, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to their
home. Denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the canned
goods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town.
The sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in the
west, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the air
palpitate with their chorus. Old Bunk came out and went over to the
store; someone struck a chord in the house, and as Denver listened
hungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed.

It was her's, it was Drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made a
change. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness,
of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he