There she met Sandy MacPherson, on a windy corner, very much surprised and, when he had heard her story, very wroth—­not so wroth as he might have been, had he known of Kitty Sharon; but of her Jees Uck breathed not a word, for she had never believed.  Sandy, who read commonplace and sordid desertion into the circumstance, strove to dissuade her from her trip to San Francisco, where Neil Bonner was supposed to live when he was at home.  And, having striven, he made her comfortable, bought her tickets and saw her off, the while smiling in her face and muttering “dam-shame” into his beard.

With roar and rumble, through daylight and dark, swaying and lurching between the dawns, soaring into the winter snows and sinking to summer valleys, skirting depths, leaping chasms, piercing mountains, Jees Uck and her boy were hurled south.  But she had no fear of the iron stallion; nor was she stunned by this masterful civilization of Neil Bonner’s people.  It seemed, rather, that she saw with greater clearness the wonder that a man of such godlike race had held her in his arms.  The screaming medley of San Francisco, with its restless shipping, belching factories, and thundering traffic, did not confuse her; instead, she comprehended swiftly the pitiful sordidness of Twenty Mile and the skin-lodged Toyaat village.  And she looked down at the boy that clutched her hand and wondered that she had borne him by such a man.

She paid the hack-driver five pieces and went up the stone steps of Neil Bonner’s front door.  A slant-eyed Japanese parleyed with her for a fruitless space, then led her inside and disappeared.  She remained in the hall, which to her simply fancy seemed to be the guest-room—­the show-place wherein were arrayed all the household treasures with the frank purpose of parade and dazzlement.  The walls and ceiling were of oiled and panelled redwood.  The floor was more glassy than glare-ice, and she sought standing place on one of the great skins that gave a sense of security to the polished surface.  A huge fireplace—­an extravagant fireplace, she deemed it—­yawned in the farther wall.  A flood of light, mellowed by stained glass, fell across the room, and from the far end came the white gleam of a marble figure.

This much she saw, and more, when the slant-eyed servant led the way past another room—­of which she caught a fleeting glance—­and into a third, both of which dimmed the brave show of the entrance hall.  And to her eyes the great house seemed to hold out the promise of endless similar rooms.  There was such length and breadth to them, and the ceilings were so far away!  For the first time since her advent into the white man’s civilization, a feeling of awe laid hold of her.  Neil, her Neil, lived in this house, breathed the air of it, and lay down at night and slept!  It was beautiful, all this that she saw, and it pleased her; but she felt, also, the wisdom and mastery behind.  It was the concrete expression of power in terms of beauty, and it was the power that she unerringly divined.