"Well," she said in her usual weary voice, "I think I'll have a glass
of milk, if I may. Then I'll go out on the porch. You see I'm being
all the trouble to you, Katherine, that I said I would be."

"Trouble!" protested Katherine. "Why, Rhoda Tuttle, if I could just
see you with the old light in your eyes I'd wait on you by inches on my
knees. I would, honestly."

Rhoda rubbed a thin cheek against the warm hand that still held hers,
and the mute thanks said more than words.

The veranda of the Newman ranch-house was deep and shaded by green
vines. From the hammock where she lay, a delicate figure amid the
vivid cushions, Rhoda looked upon a landscape that combined all the
perfection of verdure of a northern park with a sense of illimitable
breathing space that should have been fairly intoxicating to her. Two
huge cottonwoods stood beside the porch. Beyond the lawn lay the peach
orchard which vied with the bordering alfalfa fields in fragrance and
color. The yellow-brown of tree-trunks and the white of grazing sheep
against vegetation of richest green were astonishing colors for Rhoda
to find in the desert to which she had been exiled, and in the few days
since her arrival she had not ceased to wonder at them.

DeWitt crossed the orchard, quickening his pace when he saw Rhoda. He
was a tall fellow, blond and well built, though not so tall and lithe
as Cartwell. His dark blue eyes were disconcertingly clear and direct.

"Well, Rhoda dear!" he exclaimed as he hurried up the steps. "If you
didn't scare this family! How are you feeling now?"