e was about to enter she encountered a Mexican
with sombrero hiding his features and a blanket mantling his shoulders.

"Is there any one here to meet Miss Hammond?" she asked.

"No sabe, Senora," he replied from under the muffling blanket, and he
shuffled away into the shadow.

She entered the empty waiting-room. An oil-lamp gave out a thick yellow
light. The ticket window was open, and through it she saw there was
neither agent nor operator in the little compartment. A telegraph
instrument clicked faintly.

Madeline Hammond stood tapping a shapely foot on the floor, and with
some amusement contrasted her reception in El Cajon with what it was
when she left a train at the Grand Central. The only time she could
remember ever having been alone like this was once when she had missed
her maid and her train at a place outside of Versailles--an adventure
that had been a novel and delightful break in the prescribed routine of
her much-chaperoned life. She crossed the waiting-room to a window and,
holding aside her veil, looked out. At first she could descry only a few
dim lights, and these blurred in her sight. As her eyes grew accustomed
to the darkness she saw a superbly built horse standing near the window.
Beyond was a bare square. Or, if it was a street, it was the widest one
Madeline had ever seen. The dim lights shone from low, flat buildings.
She made out the dark shapes of many horses, all standing motionless
with drooping heads. Through a hole in the window-glass came a cool
breeze, and on it breathed a sound that struck coarsely upon her ear--a
discordant mingling of laughter and shout, and the tramp of boots to the
hard music of a phonograph.

"Western revelry," mused Miss Hammond, as she left the window. "Now,
what to do? I'll wait here. Perhaps the station agent will return soon,
or Alfred will come for me."

As she sat down to wait she reviewed the causes which accounted for the
remarkable situation in which she found herself. That Madeline Hammond
should be alone, at a late hour, in a dingy little Western railroad
station, was indeed extraordinary.

The close of her debutante year had been marred by the only unhappy
experience of her life--the disgrace of her brother and his leaving
home. She dated the beginning of a certain thoughtful habit of mind from
that time, and a dissatisfaction with the brilliant life society offered
her. The change had been so gradual that it was permanent before
she realized