spectable lives enough for that country.
The standard was not high, and when I thought of the dreary years they
had already spent there without their families, and the years they must
look forward to remaining there, I was willing to reserve my judgement.

CHAPTER XXI. WINTER IN EHRENBERG

We asked my sister, Mrs. Penniman, to come out and spend the winter with
us, and to bring her son, who was in most delicate health. It was said
that the climate of Ehrenberg would have a magical effect upon all
diseases of the lungs or throat. So, to save her boy, my sister made
the long and arduous trip out from New England, arriving in Ehrenberg in
October.

What a joy to see her, and to initiate her into the ways of our life in
Arizona! Everything was new, everything was a wonder to her and to my
nephew. At first, he seemed to gain perceptibly, and we had great hopes
of his recovery.

It was now cool enough to sleep indoors, and we began to know what it
was to have a good night's rest.

But no sooner had we gotten one part of our life comfortably arranged,
before another part seemed to fall out of adjustment. Accidents and
climatic conditions kept my mind in a perpetual state of unrest.

Our dining-room door opened through two small rooms into the kitchen,
and one day, as I sat at the table, waiting for Jack to come in to
supper, I heard a strange sort of crashing noise. Looking towards the
kitchen, through the vista of open doorways, I saw Ellen rush to the
door which led to the courtyard. She turned a livid white, threw up
her hands, and cried, "Great God! the Captain!" She was transfixed with
horror.

I flew to the door, and saw that the pump had collapsed and gone down
into the deep sulphur well. In a second, Jack's head and hands appeared
at the edge; he seemed to be caught in the debris of rotten timber.
Before I could get to him, he had scrambled half way out. "Don't come
near this place," he cried, "it's all caving in!"

And so it seemed; for, as he worked himself up and out, the entire
structure feel in, and half the corral with it, as it looked to me.

Jack escaped what might have been an unlucky bath in his sulphur well,
and we all recovered our composure as best we could.

Surely, if life was dull at Ehrenberg, it could not be called exactly
monotonous. We were not obliged to seek our excitement outside; we had
plenty of it, such as it was, within our walls.

My confidence in Ehrenberg, however, as a