“I find them most convenient for many purposes,” was the reply.

Polly noticed that he still had them on though they were in the store. They gave him a queer, oldish appearance and quite spoiled his good looks. Polly herself was beginning to feel disturbed. She wanted Bob and she wanted him immediately. She looked about her anxiously.

The store was larger than it appeared from without and carried a varied line of goods piled up on shelves or displayed on counters. On one side, it seemed to be a grocery store; on the other, dry-goods, shoes, and hats were set forth, while in the rear were saddles, bridles and other paraphernalia in leather. A big stove in the middle of the room gave out a cheerful warmth, for the air was growing very cool as the sun went down.

There were a few people, Mexicans and Indians, in the place and they all stared curiously at the pretty American. Polly did not realize, though she was not in the habit of underrating her attractions, how very noticeable she was in that environment, as she stood there, her tan traveling coat thrown open showing her dainty white waist, her short, trim skirt with its big plaid squares, and her neat brown silk stockings and oxfords. Conejo had not seen her like in many moons and it stared its full.

“I think Bob would be at the station. If I could go there——” Polly began, with a little lump in her throat.

“This is the station,” said Pachuca. “It is Jacob Swartz’ store and the station as well.”

“Then something has happened to my letter. He never would have disappointed me like this,” said the girl, despairingly.

“That is quite possible. If you would let me serve you in this matter, señorita? I have a car at the house of a friend just out of town. I am driving to my ranch in it to-morrow. If you would let me drive you to Athens——”

“Drive in an open car in that?” the girl pointed to the whirling sand outside. “How could we?”

“Easily. Once on our way into the mountains we will leave it behind us.”

“Oh, thank you very much, señor, you’re very kind, but if Bob doesn’t come I can go to some friends of his, English people, the Morgans, and they will drive me over in the morning.” She was conscious of a sudden desire to get away from this polite youth who stuck so tightly. It was all very well to let him amuse her on the train—that was adventure; but to drive with him through a strange country at night would be pure madness. She thought he stiffened a bit at her words.

“English people? Oh, yes, undoubtedly that will be wise. Swartz can probably tell you where to find them.”

“Yes, of course.” Polly was glad to see that he was going to leave her. “Thank you again, señor, for your kindness.”

“It has been a great pleasure,” and the young man was gone.

Polly clenched her hands nervously. Where, oh, where was Bob? Why hadn’t she telegraphed instead of trusting to a letter? At this juncture her glance fell upon a small counter over which the sign P. O. was displayed. Behind the counter sat a stout man in spectacles—Jacob Swartz, undoubtedly. Polly accosted him timidly.

“Has anyone been in from Athens to-day?” she said.

“Athens? Sure, dere train come up dis morning; dey wendt back an hour ago.”

“Was Mr. Street here—Mr. Robert Street?”

“No, joost the train gang. Dey wendt back when dey got dere mail.”

“Do—do they come every day for the mail?”

“No, joost twice a week. Dere mail ain’t so heavy it can’t wait dat long.” Swartz peered benevolently over his spectacles.

“I’m Mr. Street’s sister. I wrote him I was coming, but I suppose if he only gets his mail twice a week he hasn’t had my letter.” Polly bit her lip impatiently. “I want to go over to the Morgans—Mr. Jack Morgan. Can you show me where they live?”

“Sure can I,” replied Swartz, lumbering to his feet. “You can from the door see it.”

Polly followed him in relief, when suddenly the door opened and a little old lady literally blew in. She stamped her feet as though it were snow instead of sand that clung to her, and disengaged her head from the thick white veil in which she had wrapped it.

“Mein Gott, it is old lady Morgan, herself,” said Swartz, nudging Polly, pleasantly.

“What’s that? Somebody wanting me?” replied the lady, still occupied with the veil. “Where’s that tea I told you to send me this morning, Swartz? A fine thing to make me come out in all this for a pound of tea, just because I’ve nobody to send and two sick children on my hands! What? Oh, I can’t hear you! Who d’you say wants me?”

She was a thin, bent old lady with straggly gray hair and a very sharp penetrating voice. Polly felt the lump in her throat growing larger. Was this the jolly pretty Mrs. Jack Morgan that Bob had written about so often?

“Dis young voman——” began Swartz, heavily.

Polly stepped forward.

“Mrs. Morgan, this is Bob Street’s sister. He has often written us about you and your husband.”

“Husband? She ain’t got no husband,” interrupted Mr. Swartz, heatedly. “Ain’t I told you dis iss de old lady—Jack Morgan’s mother?”

“I’m a little hard of hearing, my dear. Who did you say you were?” asked Jack Morgan’s mother, patiently.

Polly repeated her explanation, adding a few more particulars, all as loudly as possible. They had now an interested audience of Mexicans and Indians, male and female, old and young, who found the scene none the less attractive because they did not understand it.

“Well, I suppose he didn’t get your letter,” said Mrs. Morgan. “Jack and his wife have gone over to spend a few days with some friends in Mescal or they’d run you over in the car.” There was a pause as Polly digested this unwelcome bit of news, then the old lady continued: “They’d only been gone two days when both the children came down with mumps, and my Mexican woman’s husband had to take that time to join the army, so, of course, she had to leave. If things weren’t so messed up I’d take you home with me——”

“Oh, no,” said Polly, promptly. “I couldn’t think of it. If I could just get somebody to drive me over——” Both she and Mrs. Morgan looked at Swartz.

“Mendoza might if he ain’t drunk—sometimes he ain’t,” volunteered that gentleman.

“Oh, no, I don’t think I’d like him,” shivered Polly. “Isn’t there anybody else?”

“Nobody with a car,” replied Mrs. Morgan. “It’d take you till morning to drive over—the roads are awful. Mendoza is a very decent old thing. You go and see if you can get him, Swartz,” and Swartz lumbered away. Old lady Morgan understood how to make herself obeyed. “Have you tried to get Athens on the ’phone?”

“Telephone?” A smile broke over Polly’s unhappy face. “Why, I never thought of that.”

“Good heavens, child, where do you think you are? Here, I’ll get them for you.”

She led the way to the office.

“I haven’t seen your brother since he went up to Douglas to get married,” she said. “Didn’t know they’d come home.”

“Oh, yes, they must be home,” said Polly, an awful doubt coming into her mind. “They—they must be home!”

Mrs. Morgan seized the receiver and began exchanging insults with the invisible Central. After several minutes she gave up the effort.

“It’s no use, I can’t raise them—our service is dreadful down here,” she said. “Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve got to run home before the baby wakes up; if