"It's out of your hands now, Agnes," said he; "entirely out of your hands." "It is strange how it has shaped out," she reflected after a little silence; "better, perhaps, than we could have arranged it if we had been allowed our own way. The one unfortunate thing about it seems to be that this case is isolated out here in the desert, where it never will do you a bit of good." "Except the fee," he reminded her with a gentle smile. "Oh, the fee--of course." "But there is a big hurdle to get over before we come to even that." "You mean----" She looked at him with a start, the firelight catching her shining eyes. "The crisis." "Day after tomorrow," said she, studying the fire as if to anticipate in its necromancy what that day offered to their hopes. The shadow of that grave contingency fell upon them coldly, and the plans they had been making with childlike freedom of fancy drew away and grew dim, as if such plans never had been. So much depended on the crisis in Jerry Boyle's condition, as so much devolves upon the big _if_ in the life of every man and woman at some straining period of hopes and schemes. Words fell away from them; they let the fire grow pale from neglect, and gray ashes came over the dwindling coals, like hoarfrost upon the bright salvia against a garden wall. Silence was over the camp; night was deep around them. In Jerry Boyle's tent, where his mother watched, a dim light shone through the canvas. It was so still there on that barren hillside that they could hear the river fretting over the stones of the rapids below the ford, more than half a mile away. After a while her hand sought his, and rested warm upon it as she spoke. "It was pleasant to dream that, anyway," said she, giving up a great sigh. "That's one advantage of dreams; they are plastic material, one can shape them after the heart's desire," he answered. "But it was foolish of me to mingle mine with yours so," she objected. "And it was wrong and selfish. I can't fasten this dead weight of my troubles on you and drag you back. I can't do that, dear friend." He started at the word, laying hold of her hand with eager grip. "Have you forgotten the other word--is that all there is to it?" he asked, bending toward her, a gentle rebuke in his trembling voice. "There is so much more! so much more!" she whispered. "Because of that, I cannot be so selfish as to dream those splendid dreams again--wait," she requested, as she felt that he was about to speak. "If I thought only of myself, of a refuge for others and myself, then I would not count the penalty which would attach to you to provide it. But unless we win the Governor's fee, my dear, dear soul, don't you see how impossible it will be for us to carry out even the most modest of our fond schemes?" "Not at all," he protested.