The thing was not pleasant in the eye. Sheep were dying and dead by
thousands round it, and the crows were feasting horribly. We became
silent again.

The Strangers' Hut, and its unique and, to me, awesome hospitality, was
still in my mind. It remained with me until, impelled by curiosity, I
wandered away towards it in the glow and silence of the evening. The
walk was no brief matter, but at length I stood near the lonely public,
where no name of guest is ever asked, and no bill ever paid. And then I
fell to musing on how many life-histories these grey walls had sheltered
for a fitful hour, how many stumbling wayfarers had eaten and drunken in
this Hotel of Refuge. I dropped my glances on the ground; a bird, newly
dead, lay at my feet, killed by the heat.

At that moment I heard a child's crying. I started forward, then
faltered. Why, I could not tell, save that the crying seemed so a part
of the landscape that it might have come out of the sickly sunset, out of
the yellow sky, out of the aching earth about me. To follow it might be
like pursuing dreams. The crying ceased.

Thus for a moment, and then I walked round to the door of the hut. At
the sound of slight moaning I paused again. Then I crossed the threshold
resolutely.

A woman with a child in her arms sat on a rude couch. Her lips were
clinging to the infant's forehead. At the sound of my footsteps she
raised her head.

"Ah!" she said, and, trembling, rose to her feet. She was fair-haired
and strong, if sad, of face. Perhaps she never had been beautiful, but