"Nina, if I should die and o'er ocean's foam
Softly at dusk a fair dove should come,
Open thy window, Nina, for it would be
My faithful soul come back to thee----"

Something in Cartwell's voice stirred Rhoda as had his eyes. For the
first time in months Rhoda felt poignantly that it would be hard to be
cut down with all her life unlived. The mellow voice ceased and
Cartwell, rising, lighted a fresh cigarette.

"I am going to get up with the rabbits, tomorrow," he said, "so I'll trot
to bed now."

DeWitt, impelled by that curious sense of liking for the young Indian
that fought down his aversion, said, "The music was bully, Cartwell!" but
Cartwell only smiled as if at the hint of patronage in the voice and
strolled to his own room.

Rhoda slept late the following morning. She had not, in her three nights
in the desert country, become accustomed to the silence that is not the
least of the desert's splendors. It seemed to her that the nameless
unknown Mystery toward which her life was drifting was embodied in this
infinite silence. So sleep would not come to her until dawn. Then the
stir of the wind in the trees, the bleat of sheep, the trill of
mocking-birds lulled her to sleep.

As the brilliancy of the light in her room increased there drifted across
her uneasy dreams the lilting notes of a whistled call. Pure and
liquidly sweet they persisted until there came to Rhoda that faint stir