They walked without speaking for several minutes, enjoying a sense of
comradeship hardly in keeping with the brevity of their acquaintance; a
freedom from restraint spared them the necessity of exchanging small-talk,
that frequently irritating toll exacted as tribute to possible friendship.

The desert lay white and palpitating beneath the noonday glare, and from
the outermost rim of desolation came dancing "dust-devils" whirling and
gliding through the mazes of their eerie dance. "I think sometimes," said
Judith, "that they are the ghosts of those who have died of thirst in the
desert."

Mary shuddered imperceptibly. "How do you stand it with never a glimpse of
the sea?"

"You’ll love it, or hate it; the desert is too jealous for half measures.
As for the sea"—Judith shrugged her fine shoulders—"from all I’ve heard of
it, it must be very wet."

Each felt a reticence about broaching the subject uppermost in her
thoughts—Judith from the instinctive tendency towards secretiveness that
was part of the heritage of her Indian blood; Mary because the subject so
closely concerned this girl for whom she felt such genuine admiration.

Judith finally brought up the matter with an abruptness that scarce
concealed her anxiety.

"You saw my brother yesterday at Mrs. Clark’s eating-house; will you be
good enough to tell me just what happened?"