Whether warned by intuition that one more step would be fatal, or whether his blinded sense of right was asserting itself, the fact remained that for several days, Elijah was hardly ever in the office and even then for only a brief time. He seemed to Helen, absorbed if not sullen. At first she noticed this with positive relief; later she had misgivings which grew more insistent as time went on. She saw and she could not see. She saw the dream of Elijah's solitary years daily taking shape and form. She saw that his work had roots which struck deep in solid, lasting worth; she saw Ysleta founded on drifting sand. The one had solid business principles; the other had glittering promises as worthless as fairy gold. Was this all? From here on, her vision was blurred. Was this principle which one had and the other had not, after all, rooted deep in the mysterious influence which guided Elijah's life? It was with positive gratitude one morning that she heard Uncle Sid's ponderous knock on her door and his raucous voice calling to her. "Come, Helen. Let's you and me take a walk before the sun has burned the dust all off o' the grass." "All right, Uncle Sid! I'll be there in a moment." She was up and dressed almost before the echo of Uncle Sid's voice had died away. Uncle Sid eyed her approvingly as she stepped into the hall. "Pretty trim lookin' craft," he remarked. "Don't take you long to get under way, either." "Where are you going, Uncle Sid?" "Anywhere, so I get out o' the smell o' varnish! Sand's better'n that." Uncle Sid wrinkled his nose in deep disgust. "You can blow sand off; but this stuff! It just soaks into you till you can taste it." Helen laughed. "It is penetrating." "Penetratin'!" Uncle Sid snorted. "I should say it was. If starvin' cannibals just got one whiff of us they'd never think o' cookin' us unless they'd got used to lunchin' off pitch pine." They passed through the office, startling a dozing clerk and porter to forced attention; but these, discovering that their services were not needed, settled themselves to their former positions. The outside air was heavy with the indescribable odor of newness and of hustling activity in drowsy repose. Uncle Sid had a bag in his hand which bumped softly against the outer door as he opened it. "Oranges," he explained. "Hope to Gracious they ain't infected. I gave 'em a good chance. I kept 'em in my room last night." Outside the door, he gained his first knowledge of a California fog. The sticky, clammy chill penetrated their garments like water. Uncle Sid buttoned his sailor jacket as he descended the broad steps. "This settles it!" "Settles what?" Helen inquired, her teeth chattering. "This 'ere fog has given me an idea. I'm goin' down to the river, the Christopher Sawyer, or some such heathen name. I just bet it's one of those uncanny sort o' streams that fit this country like a wet sail to a spar." "You'll have to explain, Uncle Sid; I'm stupid this morning."