hope," he said to himself,
"how easy it would be to tear this letter into scraps."

Now an idea came into his mind. If he could see her mother quickly, and if
she should ignore his honorable intentions and refuse to give him the
opportunity to prove that he was worthy of a thought from her and her
daughter, then it might not be too late to fall back on Peter Sadler's
letter. But he shook his head; that would be dishonorable and unworthy of
him.

He shut his eyes; he could not bear to look at the brightness of the world
outside the window of the car. Under his closed lids there came to him
visions, sometimes of Margery and sometimes of the forests of New Mexico.
Sometimes the visions were wavering, uncertain, and transitory, and again
they were strong and vivid--so plain to him that he could almost hear the
leaves rustle as some wild creature turned a startled look upon him.

That night he delivered his letter to Mr. Hendricks.

CHAPTER XXII

A TRANQUILLIZING BREEZE AND A HOT WIND

After Martin had left her, Margery sat on the root of the tree until Mr.
Clyde came up and said he had been wondering what had become of her.

"I have been wondering that, myself," she said. "At least, I have been
wondering what is going to become of me."

"Don't you intend to be a hermit?" said he.

She shook her head. "I don't think it is possible," she answered. "There
is no one who is better satisfied to be alone, and who can make herself
happier all by herself, and who, in all sorts of ways, can get along
better without other people than I can, and yet other people are
continually interfering with me, and I cannot get away from them."

Clyde smiled. "That is a pretty plain hint," he said. "I suppose I might
as well take it, and go off to some hermitage of my own."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Margery. "Don't be so awfully quick in coming to
conclusions. I do feel worried and troubled and bothered, and I want some
one to talk to; not about things which worry me, of course, but about
common, ordinary things, that will make me forget."

A slight shade came over the face of Mr. Clyde, and he seated himself on
the ground near Margery. "It is a shame," said he, "that you should be
worried. What is it in this peaceable, beautiful forest troubles you?"

"Did you ever hear of a paradise without snakes?" she asked. "The very
beauty of it makes them come here."

"I have never yet known any paradise at all," he replied. "But can't you