DeWitt debated with himself for some time as to whether or not he ought
to speak to Jack of Porter's warning. Finally he decided that Porter's
suspicions would only anger Jack, who was intensely loyal to his
friends. He determined to keep silence until he had something more
tangible on which to found his complaint than Billy's bitter prejudice
against all Indians. He had implicit faith in Rhoda's love for
himself. If any vague interest in life could come to her through the
young Indian, he felt that he could endure his presence. In the
meantime he would guard Rhoda without cessation.

In the days that followed, Rhoda grew perceptibly weaker, and her
friends went about with aching hearts under an assumed cheerfulness of
manner that deceived Rhoda least of any one. Rhoda herself did not
complain and this of itself added a hundredfold to the pathos of the
situation. Her unfailing sweetness and patience touched the healthy,
hardy young people who were so devoted to her more than the most
justifiable impatience on her part.

Time and again Katherine saw DeWitt and Jack leave the girl's side with
tears in their eyes. But Cartwell watched the girl with inscrutable
gaze.

Rhoda still hated the desert. The very unchanging loveliness of the
days wearied her. Morning succeeded morning and noon followed noon,
with always the same soft breeze stirring the orchard, always the clear
yellow sunlight burning and dazzling her eyes, always the unvarying
monotony of bleating sheep and lowing herds and at evening the hoot of
owls. The brooding tenderness of the sky she did not see. The
throbbing of the great, quiet southern stars stirred her only with a
sense of helpless loneliness that was all but unendurable. And still,