It was an afternoon of the Indian summer, sunny and cool, and the maples
about the Schuyler villa flamed gold and crimson against a sky of softest
blue, when Hetty Torrance sat reflectively silent on the lawn. Flora
Schuyler sat near her, with a book upside down upon her knee.
"You have been worrying about something the last few weeks," she said.
"Is that quite unusual?" asked Hetty. "Haven't a good many folks to worry
all the time?"
Flora Schuyler smiled. "Just finding it out, Hetty? Well, I have noticed a
change, and it began the day you waited for us at the depot. And it wasn't
because of Jake Cheyne."
"No," said Hetty reflectively. "I suppose it should have been. Have you
heard from him since he went away?"
"Lily Cheyne had a letter with some photographs, and she showed it to me.
It's a desolate place in the sage bush he's living in, and there's not a
white man, except the boys he can't talk to, within miles of him, while
from the picture I saw of his adobe room I scarcely think folks would have
it down here to keep hogs in. Jake Cheyne was fastidious, too, and there
was a forced cheerfulness about his letter which had its meaning, though,
of course, he never mentioned you."