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 Again Texas saw that convulsive struggle in her throat, and her head was bent, her face turned from him, as if she was ashamed to let him see that there were tears on her cheeks, and her eyes half-blinded in their hot rain.

"All right, Texas," she said.

When they came to the hotel, Texas stopped, his shoulders back, his chin lifted, as if he turned his face up to feel the rain after a drought. The strong southern breeze lifted his broad hat-brim.

"The wind's blowin' right up from Taixas this morning; you can taste the taste of home in it," said he. "Wouldn't you like to take a little walk on out a-past the houses, Fannie, where it can come to you clean?"

For answer she started forward, and he walked beside her, looking now and then with all the compassion of his soul into her face. She did not turn her eyes to meet his, but kept on at his side, her great spurs clashing over the uneven planks, her head bent as if sorrow had descended upon her and wrapped her in its cloud.

They turned from the unfenced highway well beyond the last house of Cottonwood, and sat on a little knoll, where the wind from Texas came blowing free, full of the indefinable spices of autumn, soft and beguiling, and home-calling as a maiden's song.