Virginia Page found time passing swiftly in San Juan.  Within two weeks she came almost to forget how she had heard a rattle of pistol-shots, how the slow sobbing of a bell in the Mission garden had bemoaned a life gone and a fresh crime upon a man’s soul; at the end of a month it seemed to her that she had dreamed that ride through the night with Roderick Norton, climbing the cliffs, ministering to a stricken man in the forsaken abode of ancient cliff-dwellers.  She was like one marooned upon a tiny island in an immense sea who has experienced the crisis of shipwreck and now finds existence suddenly resolved into a quiet struggle for the maintenance of life . . . that and a placid expectation.  As another might have waited through the long, quiet hours for the sign of a white sail or a black plume of smoke, so did she wait for the end of a tale whose beginning had included her.

That the long days did not drag was due not so much to that which happened about her, as to that which occurred within her.  She carried responsibility upon each shoulder; her life was in the shaping and she and none other must make it what it would be; her brother’s character was at that unstable stage when it was ready to run into the mould.  She had brought him here, from the city to the rim of the desert—­the step had been her doing, nobody’s but hers.  And she had come here far less for the sake of Elmer Page’s cough than for the sake of his manhood.  She wanted him to grow to be a man one could be proud of; there were times when his eyes evaded her and she feared the outcome.

“He is just a boy,” she told herself, seeking courage.  It seemed such a brief time ago that she had blown his nose for him and washed his face.  She made excuses for him, but did not close her eyes to the truth.  The good old saw that boys will be boys failed to make of Elmer all that she would have him.

Further to this consideration was another matter which filled the hours for her.  The few dollars with which she had established herself in San Juan marched in steady procession out of her purse and fewer other dollars came to take their places.  The Indian Ramorez whose stomach trouble she had mitigated came full of gratitude and Casa Blanca whiskey and paid La Senorita Doctor as handsomely as he could; he gave her his unlimited and eternal thanks and a very beautiful hair rope.  Neither helped her very greatly to pay for room and board.  Another Indian offered her a pair of chickens; a third paid her seventy-five cents on account and promised the rest soon.  When she came to know his type better she realized that he had done exceptionally well by her.

She went often to the Engles’, growing to love all three of them, each in a different way.  Florrie she found vain, spoiled, selfish, but all in so frank a fashion that in return for an admittedly half-jealous admiration she gave a genuine affection.  And she was glad to see how Elmer made friends with them, always appearing at his best in their home.  He and Florrie were already as intimate as though they had grown up with a back-yard fence separating their two homes; they criticised each other with terrible outspokenness, they made fun of each other, they very frequently “hated and despised” each other and, utterly unknown to either Florrie Engle or Elmer Page, were the best of friends.