In the slight embarrassment produced by his sudden change of manner she felt that her thanks seemed awkward and restrained.  “Don’t thank me,” he laughed, with a prompt return of his former levity, “that’s my trade.  I only advised.  You have saved yourself like a plucky woman—­shall I say like Blue Grass?  Good-by!” He mounted his horse, but, as if struck by an after-thought, wheeled and drew up by her side again.  “If I were you I wouldn’t see many strangers for a day or two, and listen to as little news as a woman possibly can.”  He laughed again, waved her a half-gallant, half-military salute, and was gone.  The question she had been trying to frame, regarding the probability of communication with her husband, remained unasked.  At least she had saved her pride before him.

Addressing herself to the care of her narrow household, she mechanically put away the few things she had brought with her, and began to readjust the scant furniture.  She was a little discomposed at first at the absence of bolts, locks, and even window-fastenings until assured, by Concha’s evident inability to comprehend her concern, that they were quite unknown at Los Cuervos.  Her slight knowledge of Spanish was barely sufficient to make her wants known, so that the relief of conversation with her only companion was debarred her, and she was obliged to content herself with the sapless, crackling smiles and withered genuflexions that the old woman dropped like dead leaves in her path.  It was staring noon when, the house singing like an empty shell in the monotonous wind, she felt she could stand the solitude no longer, and, crossing the glaring patio and whistling corridor, made her way to the open gateway.

But the view without seemed to intensify her desolation.  The broad expanse of the shadowless plain reached apparently to the Coast Range, trackless and unbroken save by one or two clusters of dwarfed oaks, which at that distance were but mossy excrescences on the surface, barely raised above the dead level.  On the other side the marsh took up the monotony and carried it, scarcely interrupted by undefined water-courses, to the faintly marked out horizon line of the remote bay.  Scattered and apparently motionless black spots on the meadows that gave a dreary significance to the title of “the Crows” which the rancho bore, and sudden gray clouds of sand-pipers on the marshes, that rose and vanished down the wind, were the only signs of life.  Even the white sail of the early morning was gone.

She stood there until the aching of her straining eyes and the stiffening of her limbs in the cold wind compelled her to seek the sheltered warmth of the courtyard.  Here she endeavored to make friends with a bright-eyed lizard, who was sunning himself in the corridor; a graceful little creature in blue and gold, from whom she felt at other times she might have fled, but whose beauty and harmlessness solitude had made known to her.  With misplaced kindness