could take in the wagon in which they made their flight.  And all through the pinch of poverty and grinning emptiness there was visible the woman-touch, the brave making the best of nothing, the pitiful preparation for the coming of the man.  Wild roses from the creek bloomed against the gnarled and weather-warped logs of the walls.  Sprays of clematis trailed their white bridal beauty from cans rescued from the ashes of a camp-fire.  But Alida was a strategist when it came to adorning her home, and the rusty receptacle was hid beneath trailing green leaves.  There was at the window a muslin curtain that in its starched and ruffled estate was strongly suggestive of a child’s frock hastily converted into a window drapery.  The curtain was drawn aside that the lamp might shed its beam farther on the way of the traveller who came not.  There was but one other light in the place, a bit of candle.  Alida apologized for the poor light by which they must eat, but she did not offer to take the lamp from the window.

Peter was no longer Sir Knight of the Joyous Heart as he watched the little, white-faced woman, who went so often to the door to look towards the road that entered the valley that she was no longer aware of what she did.  He saw her wide eyes full of fear, the bow of the mouth strained taut with anxiety, her unconscious fear of him as one of the alien faction, and withal her concern for his comfort.  Judith’s control was far greater, but though she hid it skilfully, he knew the sorrow that consumed her.

There was a cry from the room beyond, and Judith, snatching up the candle, went in to the children.  All three of them were sleeping cross-ways in one bed, their small, round arms and legs striking out through the land of dreams as swimmers breasting the waves.  She gave a little cry of delight and appreciation, and called Peter to look.  Little Jim, who had cried in some passing fear, sat up sleepily.  He stretched out his small arms to Peter, whom he had never seen before.  Peter took him, and again he settled to sleep, apparently assured that he was in friendly hands.

The warm, small body, giving itself with perfect confidence, strongly affected Peter’s heightened susceptibilities.  In the very nature of the situation he could be no friend to Jim Rodney, yet here in his arms lay Jim Rodney’s son, loving, trusting him instinctively.  Judith noticed that his face paled beneath its many coats of tan.  He was afraid of the little sleeping boy, afraid that his unaccustomed touch might hurt him, and yet loath to part with the small burden.  Judith took the boy from Peter and placed him between the two little girls on the bed.