curiosity, and brought him there.

The rain had drenched her, and she began to shiver under the thin folds
of her dress. The younger woman must have noticed it, for she went out
of the room and came back with a broken tea-cup which she offered to
Charity. It was half full of whiskey, and Charity shook her head; but
Harney took the cup and put his lips to it. When he had set it down
Charity saw him feel in his pocket and draw out a dollar; he hesitated
a moment, and then put it back, and she guessed that he did not wish her
to see him offering money to people she had spoken of as being her kin.

The sleeping man stirred, lifted his head and opened his eyes. They
rested vacantly for a moment on Charity and Harney, and then closed
again, and his head drooped; but a look of anxiety came into the woman's
face. She glanced out of the window and then came up to Harney. "I guess
you better go along now," she said. The young man understood and got to
his feet. "Thank you," he said, holding out his hand. She seemed not to
notice the gesture, and turned away as they opened the door.

The rain was still coming down, but they hardly noticed it: the pure air
was like balm in their faces. The clouds were rising and breaking, and
between their edges the light streamed down from remote blue hollows.
Harney untied the horse, and they drove off through the diminishing
rain, which was already beaded with sunlight.

For a while Charity was silent, and her companion did not speak. She
looked timidly at his profile: it was graver than usual, as though he
too were oppressed by what they had seen. Then she broke out abruptly:
"Those people back there are the kind of folks I come from. They may be
my relations, for all I know." She did not want him to think that she