They had a whole hour entirely to themselves and it went far toward restoring the years that the locusts had eaten. It was characteristic of them both that they talked little, even after the long ache of silence. For Jimsy, it was enough to have her there, in his arms, utterly his--to know that she had come to him alone and unafraid across land and sea; and for Honor the journey's end was to find him clear-eyed and clean-skinned and steady. Stephen Lorimer was right when he applied Gelett Burgess' "caste of the articulate" against them; they were very nearly of the "gagged and wordless folk." Yet their silence was a rather fine thing in its way; it expressed them--their simplicity, their large faith. It was not in them to make reproaches. It did not occur to Jimsy to say--"But why didn't you let me know you were coming?--At least you might have let me have the comfort of knowing you were on this side of the ocean!" And Honor never dreamed of saying "But Jimsy,--to rush from Stanford down here without sending me a line!" Therefore it was somewhat remarkable that it came out, in the brief speeches between the long stillnesses, that Honor knew that Carter had telephoned to his mother as they passed through Los Angeles, and that Mrs. Van Meter had spoken of Honor's return, and she had naturally supposed he would tell Jimsy; and that Jimsy had written her a ten page letter, telling with merciless detail of the one wild party of protest in which he had taken part, of his horror and remorse, of his determination to go to his people in Mexico and stay until he was certain he had himself absolutely in hand and had made up his mind about his future. "Well, it will be sent back to me from Florence," said Honor, contentedly. "Funny it wasn't there almost as soon as you were--I sent it so long ago!--The night after that party, and I didn't leave for over two weeks, and that makes it--well, anyhow, it's had time to be back. But it doesn't matter now." "No, it doesn't matter, now, Jimsy. I won't read it when it does come, because it's all ancient history--ancient history that--that never really happened at all! But I'm glad you wrote me, dear!" She rubbed her cheek against his bronzed face. "Of course I'd tell you everything about it, Skipper." "Of course you would, Jimsy." They were just beginning to talk about the future--beyond hurrying back to Jimsy's father--when Carter came for them. He called to them before he came limping into the little cleared space, which was partly his tact in not wanting to come upon them unannounced, and partly because he didn't want, for his own sake, to find them as he knew he would find them, without warning. As a matter of fact, while Honor lifted her head with its ruffled honey-colored braids from Jimsy's shoulder, he kept his arm about her in brazen serenity.