It was a weary walk, but in her excitement Sybil thought little of the fatigue. She reached the end of her journey, at length. It was the ranche to which she had directed the party who came with that wounded man to ask shelter of her. Sybil did not go directly to the house. At a considerable distance from the dwelling was a rude hut where the family of one of the workmen lived. Sybil knew the woman; she had once taken a fancy to be very kind to a sick child of the poor creature, and that favor had never been forgotten.
When Sybil knocked at the door, a querulous voice bade her enter, and she went into the miserable abode. The woman was nursing her baby, and two older children sat crouching at her feet, munching black crusts of bread with the sharp appetite which follows a long fast. The room was so bare that it could hardly be called untidy; but the appearance of the female and her children was famished and miserable enough.
She started up—a haggard, raw-boned creature—with a cry at the sight of her visitor, exclaiming:
"Mrs. Yates!"
"Hush!" said Sybil, motioning her back. "I want to ask you a few questions, about which you are to say nothing to any living soul."
"I will," replied the woman. "You were good to my boy. I don't forget that."
Sybil waved that claim to consideration carelessly aside, and went on:
"There was a party of strangers at the house one night last week?"
"Yes," said the woman; "I was up at the ranche when they come in; they had been to your place, and said you wouldn't let them stop. I didn't believe it."