to the gate. “Come often,” she said. “You will, won’t you?”
“I hope to,” answered Bob Eden. He held her great rough hand a moment. “You know—I’m beginning to sense the beauty of the desert,” he added.
The doctor smiled. “The desert is old and weary and wise,” she said. “There’s beauty in that, if you can see it. Not everybody can. The latch-string’s always out at Doctor Whitcomb’s. Remember, boy.”
Paula Wendell swung the car about, and in silence they headed home.
“I feel as though I’d been out to old Aunt Mary’s,” said Eden presently. “I sort of expected her to give me a cookie when I left.”
“She’s a wonderful woman,” said the girl softly. “I ought to know. It was the light in her window I saw my first night on the desert. And the light in her eyes—I shall never forget. All the great people are not in the cities.”
They rode on. About them the desert blazed stark and empty in the midday heat; a thin haze cloaked the distant dunes and the far-away slopes of the hills. Bob Eden’s mind returned to the strange problems that confronted him. “You’ve never asked me why I’m here,” he remarked.
“I know,” the girl answered. “I felt that pretty soon you’d realize we’re all friends on the desert—and tell me.”
“I want to—some day. Just at present—well, I can’t. But going back to that night you first visited Madden’s ranch—you felt that something was wrong there?”
“I did.”
“Well, I can tell you this much—you were probably right.”
