d then he became to her a glorious troubadour, having no relationship
with prosaic affairs and common standards, but a care-free creature to be
loved and praised because of his song; to be heard gladly and sped on his
way with a sigh.

The golden notes of his songs out at the Quemado echoed in her ears like
the mournful sound of bells across lonely fields. Her heart ached again at
the beauty of the songs he had sung.

... She went down-stairs and stood by the gate, waiting for him.

They talked for a little while, Runyon bending down toward her. She
thought of him as an incomparably gay and happy creature. His musical
powers gave him a mystic quality to her. She caressed his horse's mane and
thrilled as she touched it, as if she were caressing the man--as if he
were some new and splendid type of centaur. And Runyon seemed to read her
mind. His face became more ruddy with delight. His flashing eyes suggested
sound rather than color--they were laughing.

Their conference ended and Runyon rode on up the hill. Sylvia carried
herself circumspectly enough as she went back into the house, but she was
almost giddy with joy over the final words of that conference. Runyon had
lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and had spoken with intensity as
one sometimes speaks to children.

She did not ride that afternoon. It appeared that all her interests for
the time being were indoors. She spent much of her time among the things
which reminded her most strongly of Harboro; she sought out little
services she could perform for him, to delight him when he returned. She
talked with more than common interest with Antonia, following the old
woman from kitchen to dining-room and back again. She seemed particularly
in need of human companionship, of sympathy. She trusted the old servant
without reserve. She knew that here was a woman who would neither see nor
speak nor hear evil where either she or Harboro was concerned. Not that
her fidelity to either of them was particular; it was the home itself that
was sacred. The flame that warmed the house and made the pot boil was the
thing to be guarded at any cost. Any winds that caused this flame to waver
were evil winds and must not be permitted to blow. The old woman was
covertly discerning; but she had the discretion common to those who know
that homes are built only by a slow and patient process--though they may
be destroyed easily.

When it came time to light the lamps Sylvia went up into