“If you suffer in the night, please ask me to help you,” she begged. “I will not sleep, but I do not wish to speak until I know you are awake.”
“You must sleep,” said Eveley.
But Marie did not sleep. Sometimes Eveley would moan a little, turning heavily, and then, without a sound, Marie was out of bed, replacing the bandages with fresh ones, crooning softly over Eveley as a mother over a suffering child.
Fortunately the next day was Sunday, and Eveley remained quietly on a couch, with Marie waiting upon her like a tender Madonna. Nolan came up, too, and insisted upon the full story of what had happened.
“I fell,” said Eveley positively.
“You did not fall on your shoulder-blades,” he said. “You girls have been up to some monkey business, and I want to know.”
After long insistence, Eveley told him of the night’s adventure, Marie sitting erect and rigid during the recital.
“Where did you go, Marie?” he asked, in deep concern.
“I went too far,” she confessed regretfully. “But it was an exquisite night, and I was happy. I went down farther and farther, and did not realize it. Suddenly I looked up, and knew I was far, far down. I turned at once.—Then some one called. A man’s voice. I ran, and the steps came pounding after me.”
“You must not go into the canyon at night again, please, Marie. You are too young. And—the canyon goes away down to the water-front where there are a lot of Greasers and—I mean, half-breeds,” he stammered quickly, “all kinds of foreigners along the road down there! You must stay on top of your canyon and be good.”