so little effort to help herself. She sat droopingly on the rock,
gazing from her foot to the far lavender line of the mesas. A tiny,
impotent atom of life, she sat as if the eternal why which the desert
hurls at one overwhelmed her, deprived her of hope, almost of
sensation. There was something of nobility in the steadiness with
which she gazed at the melting distances, something of pathos in her
evident resignation, to her own helplessness and weakness.

The girl was quite unconscious of the fact that a young man was
tramping up the desert behind her. He, however, had spied the white
gown long before Rhoda had sunk to the rock and had laid his course
directly for her. He was a tall fellow, standing well over six feet
and he swung through the heavy sand with an easy stride that covered
distance with astonishing rapidity. As he drew near enough to perceive
Rhoda's yellow head bent above her injured foot, he quickened his pace,
swung round the yucca thicket and pulled off his soft felt hat.

"Good-morning!" he said. "What's the matter?"

Rhoda started, hastily covered her foot, and looked up at the tall
khaki-clad figure. She never had seen the young man before, but the
desert is not formal.

"A thing like a little crayfish bit my foot," she answered; "and you
don't know how it hurts!"

"Ah, but I do!" exclaimed the young man. "A scorpion sting! Let me
see it!"

Rhoda flushed.