stairs and down when they entered
the house, and Sylvia had an alarmed moment when she pictured a lot of
guests waiting for them. But there proved to be nobody in the house but
just they two and the old Mexican woman. Antonia, her name was.

Harboro took her by the hand and led her up-stairs to the door of her
room. It didn't occur to him that Antonia might better have attended to
this part of the welcoming. Antonia was busy, and she was not the sort of
person to mother a bride, Harboro thought. She wouldn't have been asked to
perform this task in any case. You would have thought that Harboro was
dealing with a child rather than a woman--his wife. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world for him to take complete charge of her from the
beginning.

She uttered a little cry when she entered the bedroom. There by the bed
was her trunk, which she had left at home. She hadn't known anything about
its having been transferred from one house to the other.

"Who brought it?" she asked, startled.

"I sent for it," explained Harboro. "I knew you'd want it the first
thing."

"You didn't go to the house?"

"Oh, no. I sent the expressman to the house and instructed him to ask for
your things. I suppose he met your father. It's all right."

She looked at him curiously. There was a little furrow in her forehead.
"Do you always do things--that way?" she asked.

He didn't appear to understand what she meant. He had other things on his
mind. He stood away from her, by the door. "If I were you I'd take off
that--harness," he said. "It makes you look like a picture--or a
sacrifice. Do you know the old Aztec legends? It would be nicer for you to
look just like a little woman now. Put on one of the dresses you wore when
we walked together. How does that strike you?"

"Well, I will." She looked after him as if she were a little bewildered as
he turned away, and closed the door. She heard him call back: "I'll see if
there's anything I can do for Antonia. Supper will be ready when you come
down."

It seemed to her that his conduct was very strange for a lover. He was so
entirely matter-of-fact. Yet everything about him seemed to be made up of
kindness--to radiate comfort. She had never known any other man like this,
she reflected. And then an unfamiliar light dawned upon her. She had had
lovers before, certainly; but she realized now, with a deep and strange
sensation, that she had never really been loved until Harboro came.

Sh