ed her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes
were averted, and Harboro realized with a pang that she did not touch him
with the familiar touch which seemed to call to something within him to
respond, to make itself manifest. She was merely seeking for support such
as a wall or a gate might afford to one who is faint.

He touched her face with his hand and brought it about so that he could
read her eyes; but this movement she resisted--not irritably, but
hopelessly. He slipped an arm around her yearningly, and then the storm
within her broke.

He thought she must be suffocating. She gasped for breath, lifting her
chin high. She was shaken with sobs. She clasped his head in her hands and
placed her face against it--but the movement was despairing, not loving.

He tried again to look into her eyes; and presently he discovered that
they were quite dry. It seemed she had lost the power to weep; yet her
sobs became rhythmic, even--like those of any woman who grieves deeply and
is still uncomforted.

He held her tenderly and spoke her name over and over. The tears would
come soon, and when she had wept he could ask her to tell him what it was
that had wounded her. He was suffering cruelly; he was in despair. But he
admonished himself firmly to bear with her, to comfort her, to wait.

And at last, as if indeed she had been leaning against a wall for support
until she could recover herself, she drew away from him. She was almost
calm again; but Harboro realized that she was no nearer to him than she
had been when first she had climbed the stairs and stood before him.

He placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her to a chair. He sat
down and pulled her gently down to him. "Now, Sylvia!" he said with
firmness.

She was kneeling beside him, her elbows on his knees, her face in her
hands. But the strange remoteness was still there. She would not look at
him.

"Come!" he admonished. "I am waiting."

She looked at him then; but she wore the expression of one who does not
understand.

"Something has gone wrong," he said. "You see, I've not been impatient
with you. But you ought to tell me now."

"You mean I ought to tell you what's gone wrong?"

He was startled by the even, lifeless quality of her voice. "Of course!"

"In just a word or two, I suppose?"

"If you can."

She knelt where she could look away toward the west--toward Mexico; and
she noted, with mild surprise, that a new moon hung low in the sky,
sinking