e looked at a child
who assured her that a wholly imaginary thing was a real thing.

She ate dutifully, and then she took a bit of husk from Antonia's store
and made a cigarette. It was the first time she had smoked since her
marriage. "He's not coming back," she said in a voice like that of a
helpless old woman. She leaned her elbows on the table and smoked. Her
attitude did not suggest grief, but rather a leave-taking.

Then with returning briskness she got up and found street apparel and left
the house.

She went down into the town almost gayly--like the Sylvia of old. In the
drug-store she told an exciting little story to the clerk. There had been
a nest of scorpions ... would he believe it? In the kitchen! She had been
given such a start when the servant had found them. The servant had
screamed; quite naturally, too. She had been told that a weak solution,
sprinkled on the floor, would drive them away. What was it?... Yes, that
was it. She had forgotten.

She received the small phial and paid the price with fingers which were
perfectly firm. And then she started back up the hill.

Under a street light she became aware that she was being followed. She
turned with a start. It was only a dog--a forlorn little beast which
stopped when she stopped, and regarded her with soft, troubled eyes.

She stooped and smoothed the creature's head. "You mustn't follow," she
said in a voice like hidden water. "I haven't any place to take
you--nowhere at all!" She went on up the hill. Once she turned and
observed that the lost dog stood where she had left him, still imploring
her for friendship.

At her door she paused and turned. She leaned against the door-post in a
wistful attitude. A hundred lonely, isolated lights were burning across
the desert, as far as the eye could reach. They were little lights which
might have meant nothing at all to a happier observer; but to Sylvia they
told the story of men and women who had joined hands to fight the battle
of life; of the sweet, humble activities which keep the home intact--the
sweeping of the hearth, the mending of the fire, the expectant glance at
the clock, the sound of a foot-fall drawing near. There lay the desert,
stretching away to the Sierra Madre, a lonely waste; but it was a paradise
to those who tended their lights faithfully and waited with assurance for
those who were away.

... She turned and entered her house stealthily.

At the top of the stairs she paused in