sign scaled by the sun.

The proprietress, Mrs. Adams, a rosy, dark-haired woman, had heard the
Overland arrive and depart. Through habit she listened until the distant
rumble of the train diminished to a faint purr. No guests had arrived on
the Overland. Stacey was not much of a town, and tourists seldom stopped
there. Mrs. Adams stepped from the small office to the dining-room and
arranged some flowers in the center of the long table. She happened to
be the only woman in the desert town who grew flowers.

The Overland had come and gone. Another day! Mrs. Adams sighed, patted
her smooth black hair, and glanced down at her simple and neat attire.

She rearranged the flowers, and was stepping back to view the effect
when something caused her to turn and glance toward the office. There
had been no sound, yet in the doorway stood a man--evidently a rider. He
was looking at the calendar on the office wall. Mrs. Adams stepped
toward him. The man turned and smiled. She gazed with awakening
astonishment at the dusty, khaki-clad figure, the cool gray eyes beneath
the high-crowned sombrero, and last at the extended hand. Without
meeting the man's eyes, she shook hands.

"Jim! How did you know?" she queried, her voice trembling.

"I heard of you at Nogales. I wasn't looking for you--then. You have a
right pleasant place here. Yours?"

She nodded.

"I came to see the boy," he said. "I'm not here for long."