Harry herself realized what she had done only when she was on her way to the Bianes'. "What must Bobby think of me?" she exclaimed. "I forgot, of course, that I hadn't a cent. Never mind. I will pay, as soon as I sell my beef critters. O me! It begins to look as if I'd have to sell them all to pay the four hundred and twenty-two dollars, interest and capital, I'll owe on the stock in December, besides what I'll have to have for hay for them. Well, I've 'til December first to raise the money, and that's nearly four months yet." All along the two miles of road to the Biane cabin she was on the watch for grazing cattle, hoping to see their curly white-face and red-polled steers among them. All the good feed had been eaten off close by, however, and what stock she did see was up in the narrow draws where there was still a little green. Evidently she was to have plenty of work rounding up those steers. Why, no! She pulled up short. That looked like some of them now. She had just turned the ridge in the lava beyond which lay Biane's, when she saw below her, feeding on the fine grass round the edge of a pothole, Biane's sorry-looking bunch, and with them a big, curly white-face and two red--polls, theirs of course. She rode over to look at the brand, but as she approached, the cattle moved round to the other side of the water. Harry paused and looked across. She wanted to ride through, but the water was black and sinister. Out in the lava, it was not safe to go where you could not see your footing. She had better wait until she was coming home and then drive the steers with her. No one, as usual, was visible round the house, but the front window was open and a blanket was fastened up to keep out the light. Isita must be in that room. Harry knocked lightly, then listened. Some one inside was talking. She knocked again and, when no one answered, opened the door and entered. At first the sudden change from the blaze of sunshine outside to the darkness of the room obscured everything. The voice she had heard was still hurrying on in a low monotone. She turned toward it and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the half light, saw a cot bed and on it, murmuring in the delirium of fever, Isita. Going swiftly to the bed Harry bent over the unconscious girl. "What do you want, Isita, dear?" she asked gently, then drew back in dismay. The small face, usually so clear and pale, was swollen out of recognition and disfigured under a veil of crimson flecks; the lips were parched and brown. At the sound of Harry's voice the sick girl moved nervously, was silent an instant, then began to mutter afresh in broken, hurried words. "Isita, dear! You poor little thing!" Harry exclaimed. "What is it, Isita?"