It is that way with us. When our dear one lies dying; when we have struggled through a night hideous with the phantoms of ruin and disgrace, then the dawn comes, and the sun. We lift our seamed faces to the bright sky and hope again. For if there is still harmony in the heavens, how can the discord of the earth 118 overwhelm us? So we comfort our hearts, foolishly exalting our troubles to the plane of the eternal consonance.
The sun stood “the height of a lance” when Agnes slipped quietly to the door of the tent. Over the gray desert lands a smoky mist lay low. Comanche, stirring from its dreams, was lighting its fires. Here passed one, the dregs of sleep upon him, shoulders bent, pail in hand, feet clinging heavily to the road, making toward the hydrant where the green oats sprang in the fecund soil. There, among the horses in the lot across the way, another growled hoarsely as he served the crowding animals their hay.
Agnes looked over the sagging tent-roofs with their protruding stovepipes and wondered what would be revealed if all were swept suddenly away. She wondered what fears besides her own they covered, silent in the pure light of day. For Comanche was a place of secrets and deceits.
She laid a fire in the tin stove and put the kettle on to boil. Horace Bentley and Milo Strong were stirring within the tent, making ready for the stage, which departed for Meander at eight.
Mrs. Mann, the miller’s wife, came out softly, the mark of the comb in her hair, where it had become damp at the temples during her ablution. She looked about her swiftly as she stood a moment in the door, very trim and handsome in her close-fitting black dress, with a virginal touch of white collar and a coral pin. 119
Agnes was bending over a bed of coals, which she was raking down to the front of the stove for the toast–a trick taught the ladies of the camp by Sergeant Schaefer–and did not seem to hear her.
“Dr. Slavens hasn’t come back?” Mrs. Mann whispered, coming over softly to Agnes’ side.
Agnes shook her head, turning her face a moment from the coals.
“I heard you get up,” said Mrs. Mann, “and I hurried to join you. I know just how you feel!”
With that the romantic little lady put an arm around Agnes’ neck and gave her a hurried kiss, for Horace was in the door. A tear which sprang suddenly leaped down Agnes’ face and hissed upon the coals before the girl could take her handkerchief from her sweater-pocket and stop its wilful dash. Under the pretext of shielding her face from the glow she dried those which might have followed it into the fire, and turned to Horace with a nod and smile.