Rhoda, as did Billy Porter, the latter hanging on every word and movement
of this lovely, fragile being, as if he would carry forever in his heart
the memory of her charm.

Rhoda herself watched the fire. She was tired, tired to the inmost fiber
of her being. The only real desire left her was that she might crawl off
somewhere and die in peace. But these good friends of hers had set their
faces against the inevitable and it was only decency to humor them.
Once, quite unconscious that the others were watching her, she lifted her
hands and eyed them idly. They were almost transparent and shook a
little. The group about the fire stirred pityingly. John and Katherine
and Jack remembered those shadowy hands when they had been rosy and full
of warmth and tenderness. Billy Porter leaned across and with his hard
brown palms pressed the trembling fingers down into Rhoda's lap. She
looked up in astonishment.

"Don't hold 'em so!" said Billy hoarsely. "I can't stand to see 'em!"

"They _are_ pretty bad," said Rhoda, smiling. It was her rare, slow,
unforgetable smile. Porter swallowed audibly. Cartwell at the piano
drifted from a Mohave lament to _La Paloma_.

"The day that I left my home for the rolling sea,
I said, 'Mother dear, O pray to thy God for me!'
But e'er I set sail I went a fond leave to take
Of Nina, who wept as if her poor heart would break!"

The mellow, haunting melody caught Rhoda's fancy at once, as Cartwell
knew it would. She turned to the sinewy figure at the piano. DeWitt was
wholesome and strong, but this young Indian seemed vitality itself.