“It’s a sad story, little girl,” replied Adam. “The desert is full of sad stories.... But your uncle--what became of him?” “He went off prospecting for gold. But he came back several times. And the last was just before father died. Then he said he would come back again for me some day and take me out of the desert. Mother lives on that hope. But I don’t want him to come. All I pray for is that she gets well. I would never leave her.” “So you’ve lived all your life on the desert?” “Yes. Mother says I never slept under a real roof.” “And how old are you?” “Nearly fourteen.” “So old as that? Well! I thought you were younger. And, little girl--may I ask how you learned to talk so--as if you had been to school?” “My mother was a school-teacher. She taught me.” “What’s your name?” “It’s Eugenie Linwood. But I don’t like Eugenie. Father and mother always called me Genie.... What’s your name?” “Mine is Wansfell.” “You’re the biggest man I ever saw. I thought the Yuma Indians were giants, but you’re bigger. My poor father was not big or strong.” Presently Adam saw the dark-gray forms of his burros along the trail. Jennie appeared to be more contrary than usual, and kicked spitefully at Adam as he untied her. And as Adam drove her ahead with the other burro she often lagged to take a nip at the sage. During the several miles farther down the trail Adam was hard put to it to keep her going steadily. The girl began to tire, a circumstance which Adam had expected. She refused to be assisted, or to be put on one of the burros. The trail began to circle round the black bulge of the mountain, finally running into the shadow, where objects were hard to see. The murmur of flowing water soon reached Adam’s ears--most welcome and beautiful sound to desert man. And then big cottonwoods loomed up, and beyond them the gleam of starlight on stately palm trees. Adam, peering low down through the shadows, distinguished a thatch-roofed hut. “We’ll not tell mother about the bad men,” whispered the girl. “It’ll only scare her.” “All right, Genie,” said Adam, and he permitted himself to be led to a door of the hut. Dark as pitch was it inside. “Mother, are you awake?” called Genie. “Oh, child, where have you been?” rejoined a voice, faint and weak, with a note of relief. “I woke up in the dark.... I called. You didn’t come.” Then followed a cough that had a shuddering significance for Adam. “Mother, I’m sorry. I--I met a man on the trail. A Mr. Wansfell. We talked. And he came with me. He has a new pack of good things to eat. And, oh, mother! he’s--he’s different from those men who were here; he’ll help us.” “Madam, I’ll be happy to do anything I can for you and your little girl,” said Adam, in his deep, kindly tones.