A few young pines stood apart on a knoll, a later extension of the garden,
ungraded and covered with pine-needles. In the hollow places native shrubs,
surprised by irrigation, had made an unwonted summer's growth.

Here, in the blanching moon, stood a tent with both flaps thrown back. A
wind of coolness drew across the hill; it lifted one of the tent-curtains
mysteriously; its touch was sad and searching.

Mrs. Thorne put back the canvas and stepped inside. She saw a folding
camp-cot stripped of bedding, a dresser with half-open drawers that
disclosed emptiness, a dusty book-rack standing on the floor. The little
mirror on the tent-pole, hung too high for her own reflection, held a
darkling picture of a pine-bough against a patch of stars. She sat on the
edge of the cot and picked up a discarded necktie, sawing it across her
knee mechanically to free it from the dust. Her husband placed himself
beside her. His weight brought down the mattress and rocked her against his
shoulder; he put his arm around her, and she gave way to a little sob.

"When has he written to you?" she asked. "Since he went down?"

"I think so. Let me see! When did you hear last?"

"I have brought his last letter with me. I wondered if he had told you."

"I have heard nothing--nothing in particular. What is it?"

"The inevitable woman."

"She has come at last, has she? Come to stay?"