but not quite her usual unconcerned self. She and Alix, taking
this trip, would have been chattering like magpies. She and Martin
had their dinner in the train, and then she did brighten, trying
to pierce with her eyes the darkness outside, and getting only a
lovely reflected face under bronzed cocks feathers, instead. After
dinner they had a long, murmured talk; she began to droop sleepily
now, although even this long day had not paled her cheeks or
visibly tired her.

At ten they stumbled out, cramped and over-heated, and smitten on
tired foreheads with a rush of icy mountain air.

"Is this the pl-l-ace?" yawned Cherry, clinging to his arm.

"This is the place, Baby Girl, El Nido, and not much of a place!"
her husband told her. "That's the Hotel McKinley, over there where
the lights are! We stay there to-night, and drive out to the mine
to-morrow. I'll manage the bags, but don't you stumble!"

She was wide-awake now, looking alertly about her at the dark
streets of the little town. Mud squelched beneath their feet,
planks tilted. Beside Martin Cherry entered the bright, cheerful
lobby of a cheap hotel where men were smoking and spitting. She
was beside him at the desk, and saw him write on the register, "J.
M. Lloyd and wife." The clerk pushed a key across the counter;
Martin guided her to a rattling elevator.

She had a fleeting thought of home; of Dad reading before the
fire, of the little brown room upstairs, with Alix, slender in her
thin nightgown, yawning over her prayers. A rush of reluctance--of