orchestration was nothing more or less than millions of grasshoppers
rasping legs and wings together in hoarse appreciation of the heat and
glare; but it had a sound that boded evil. Again and again she turned
towards the yellow road as it dipped over the hills; but there was never a
glimpse of a horseman from that direction.





V


The Trail Of Sentiment


Within the house the travellers had disposed themselves in a repressed and
melancholy circle that suggested the suspended animation of a funeral
gathering. The fat lady had turned back her skirt to save her travelling
dress. The stage was late, and there was no good and sufficient reason for
wearing it out. A similar consideration of economy led her to flirt off
flies with her second best pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Dax presided over the
gathering with awful severity. Every one truckled to her shamefully,
receiving her lightest remarks as if they were to be inscribed on tablets
of bronze. Leander, his eyes bright with excitement at being received in
the family circle on an equal footing, balanced perilously on the edge of
his chair, anticipating dismissal.

"Chugg’s never ben so late as this," said Mrs. Dax, rocking herself
furiously. She strongly resembled one of those mottled chargers of the