ight," he
said--the words being an affirmation rather than a question. He had read
an expression of dread in her eyes.

"Yes, everything is all right," she echoed. Everything _was_ right now.
She seemed to awaken from a horrible nightmare. Harboro's presence put to
flight an army of fears. She could scarcely understand why she had been so
greatly disturbed. No harm could come to him, or to her. He was too
strong, too self-contained, to be menaced by little creatures. The bigness
of him, the penetrating, kindly candor of his eyes, would paralyze base
minds and violent hands seeking to do him an injury. The law had
sanctioned their union, too--and the law was powerful.

She held to that supporting thought, and during the rest of the evening
she was untroubled by the instinctive knowledge that even the law cannot
make right what the individual has made wrong.

She was as light-hearted as a child that night, and Harboro, after the
irksome restraints of the day, rejoiced in her. They played at the game of
love again; and old Antonia, in her place down-stairs, thought of that
exchange of letters and darkly pondered.

CHAPTER XII

The election came and went; the voice of the people had been heard, and
Maverick County had a new sheriff. In the house on the Quemado Road
Fectnor's name was heard no more.

On the Saturday night following the election Harboro came home and found a
letter waiting for him on the table in the hall. He found also a
disquieted Sylvia, who looked at him with brooding and a question in her
eyes.

He stopped where he stood and read the letter, and Sylvia watched with
parted lips--for she had recognized the handwriting on the envelope.

Harboro's brows lowered into a frown. "It's from your father," he said
finally, lifting his eyes from the letter and regarding Sylvia.

She tried to achieve an effect of only mild interest. "What can he have to
write to you about?" she asked.

"Poor fellow--it seems he's been ill. Sylvia, how long has it been since
you visited your father?"

"Does he want me to come to see him?"

"He hints at that pretty strongly. Yes, that's really the substance of his
letter."

"I've never been back since we were married."

She led the way into the dining-room. Her manner was not quite responsive.
She made Harboro feel that this was a matter which did not concern him.

"But isn't that--doesn't that seem rather neglectful?"

She drew a chair away from the table a