She asked no questions, but held out her hands.

Corliss, blind with tears, dropped to his knee: "Madre! Madre!" he
cried.

She patted his head. "You come with me. Then perhaps you have to say
to me that which now you do not say."

He shook his head, but she paid no attention, leading the way to the
buckboard. He climbed beside the driver, then with an ejaculation of
apology, leaped to the road and helped her in.

"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?"

Again he shook his head. "I can't. I--"

She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.

"I'll tell you when--when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."

"I know," she said.

Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.

They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, and
crossed the ford. The clustered adobes of the Loring homestead
glimmered in the sun. Corliss glanced across the river toward the
Concho. Again the Señora Loring questioned him with a glance.

He shook his head. "Away--anywhere," he said, gesturing toward the