He put out his hand, and, as she clasped it, Ann said, scarcely thinking: "I am Ann Lytton. I arrived last night and may be here some time." She saw a quick look of pain come into his readable eyes and felt his finger tighten on hers. "Oh, yes!" he said, in a manner that made her catch her breath. "I know.... Your brother, isn't it, the young miner?" At that the woman started and merely to escape further painful discussion, unthinkingly clouding her own identity, replied, "Ned, you mean ... yes...." "Well, if you're to be here long we will see you, surely. And if there's anything I can do for you, please ask it." "You're very kind," she said, as she turned from him. In her room she stood silent a moment, palms against her cheeks. Bayard's words came back to her: "I didn't think you was married ... especially to a thing like that...." And now this other man concluded that she could not be Ned's wife! "I must be his wife ... his _good_ wife!" she said, with a stamp of her foot. "If he ever needed one ... it's now...." CHAPTER VI AT THE CIRCLE A Ned Lytton swam back to consciousness through painful half dreams. Light hurt his inflamed eyes; a horrible throbbing, originating in the center of his head, proceeded outward and seemed to threaten the solidity of his skull; his body was as though it had been mauled and banged about until no inch of flesh remained unbruised; his left forearm burned and stung fiendishly. He was in bed, undressed, he realized, and covered to the chin with clean smelling bedding. He moved his tortured head from side to side and marveled dully because it rested on a pillow. It was some time before he appreciated more. Then he saw that the fine sunlight which hurt his eyes streamed into the room from open windows and door, that it was flung back at him by whitewashed walls and scrubbed floor. He was in someone's house, cared for without his knowing. He moved stiffly on the thought. Someone had taken him in, someone had shown him a kindness, and, even in his semi-stupor, he wondered, because, for an incalculable period, he had been hating and hated. He did not know how Bayard had dragged a bed from another room and set it up in his kitchen that he might better nurse his patient; did not know how the rancher had slept in his chair, and then but briefly, that he might not be tardy in attending to any need during the early morning hours; did not realize that the whole program of life in that comfortable ranch house had been altered that it might center about him. He did comprehend, though, that someone cared, that he was experiencing kindness.