As we went on in this intensely lonely country, out of the darkness came an odor that a moment before had not been, resembling jasmine or syringa, but fresher than either. We stopped the car, expecting to find ourselves in the midst of a garden. But all around was only greasewood and sage, sage and greasewood. The twigs we plucked to smell broke off brittle in our hands. We drove on, much perplexed. Just before we reached the town of Shiprock, the air lifted with a new freshness. We sniffed, and raised our heads as horses do. We were reminded of home. It was water! We had not smelled water for two dry days. In an instant we were rolling down shady avenues, and saw lights reflected on a river, and crossed into a town so dense with green grass and arched trees and roses in bloom that it seemed like some old place in New England. Then the mysterious odor, stronger and of unearthly sweetness, came again. It blew from a field of alfalfa in bloom, with the night dew distilling its heavenly freshness. We must have been several miles away when its perfume first reached us in the desert. A car halted in the road before the superintendent’s house,--for Shiprock is a Navajo agency,--and as we stopped, a man and his wife exchanged names and destinations with us in the darkness. They were from California, going to Yellowstone. When we told them our home town they said the usual thing. We discussed plans for the night. They had none, neither had we. It was nearly midnight. “That’s the agent’s house,” he said, pointing to the only light in town, “but they won’t take you there. We just asked. The lady’s all alone, but she might give you directions for a hotel.” As we went toward the house, an Indian policeman in uniform shadowed us, wearing the kind of helmet the police used to wear in Boston and rural plays. He seemed to alternate between a desire to protect us against Shiprock, and Shiprock against us, his grave manner signifying he would do justice to both parties. The agent’s wife directed us to a hotel, which she refused to indorse, and when we left, she called after us,--“You aren’t alone?” “Yes,” I answered, “all alone, ever since we left Boston.” And then, to save time, “We’re a long ways from _home_.” “I don’t know what accommodations you’d find at the hotel,” she said. “You’d better stay here. Being alone, I didn’t want to take in any men, but I’d be glad to have your company.” “Did you find a hotel?” asked the kind man in the road, as we returned for our baggage. “Yes,--here,” we said, “not having a man with us.” “You have the luck,” he answered, and his wife groaned, and asked him as wives will, what good it did her to have him along.