"The regiment was only here three days," a little voice inside of her whispered fearfully. "Three days!" Ikey's scorn was unbounded. "If he had cared, he could have found you in three hours--and he always said he cared. It's a thing you've got to live with. It's nothing so unusual. It happens every day. Why can't you treat it like a poor relation?" And her thoughts went back to Fort Leavenworth, and the gowns on gowns she had worn, all burned up at the St. Francis last spring, with the rest of her things, a week after she had reached the city; and Cousin Mary, suave and elegant and impressive as her chaperon; and herself, petted and made much of on all sides, and incidentally pointed out as the richest girl on the field, and an orphan; and Bixler McFay, handsome, brilliant, devoted, always on hand, always protesting---- A whimsical, sarcastic little smile curved her lips for a moment. The earthquake had certainly made a difference. A vision of Cousin Mary arose--not the suave and elegant chaperon of a wealthy young relative, but a frightened, self-centered, middle-aged woman, who had taken the earthquake as a personal affront put upon her by her young charge and insisted on being the first consideration in no matter what environment she found herself. [Illustration: "'IT'S A DESPICABLE LETTER,' SHE TOLD HERSELF"] Then came another vision. She recalled her parting with Bixler McFay in the late winter, when she had left Leavenworth for the Coast, saying it wasn't decent not to know anything about the place where all your income came from, and he had left Leavenworth to rejoin his regiment in Arizona. How his voice had trembled that morning as he bade her good-bye, declaring he should always consider himself engaged to her, even if she did not consider herself engaged to him; begging that she wear his class pin, or at least keep it for him if she would not wear it, because the thought of its being in her possession would comfort him in his loneliness. It had comforted her in those first dreadful days after the fire to think that he was alive and on his way to her. It never entered her head but what he would come at once: when friends were looking for friends and enemies were succoring one another, how should he fail her? And then--not one word. Not even an inquiry in the paper; when that was about all the papers were made up of for days after--column after column of addresses and inquiries, along with the death notices. And afterwards--not one word---- II "I won't pretend this is accidental, Miss Stanton." Ikey looked up startled, began to curl her feet up under her skirt, decided that it was not worth while,--he was only one of the boarders,--and offered buns and candy with indifferent promptness. "There's a gang of toughs coming down over the hill. Strikers, maybe. I thought they might startle you." He seated himself unceremoniously on a rock near by.