class="direction c2">Sobered.

She seems wonderfully better.

Beeler.

Better!

Rhoda.

I don't mean her poor body. She's got past caring for that.

Beeler.

With sarcasm.

You mean in her mind, eh?

Rhoda.

Yes, I mean better in her mind.

Beeler.

Because of what this fellow has been sayin' to her, I suppose.

Rhoda.

Yes, because of that.

Beeler.

As he puts on an old fur cap.

An out-and-out fakir!

Rhoda.

You don't know him.

Beeler.

I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with him. What's his part in the show?

Rhoda.

I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not—what you say.

Beeler.

Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of him.

Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can be distinguished.

Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.

Annie.

What's a fakir?

Rhoda does not answer.

Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?

Rhoda.

Humoring her.

A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does strange things.

Annie.

What kind of things?

Rhoda.

Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then—he—climbs—up—the—rope!

Annie.

Don't he fall?

Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation.

Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets nervously.

Annie.

Listen! He's coming down!

Rhoda.

Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.

Annie.

In a panic.

Let me go.

She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind, looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life. There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected.

Rhoda.

As he enters.

Good morning.

Michaelis.

Watching Annie's retreat.

Is—is that child afraid of me?

Rhoda.

As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table.

Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost as if we were in the wilderness.

The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors.

Rhoda nods toward the closing door.

It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another world, to her.

Michaelis.

Looks at her in an odd, startled way.

Another world?

Rhoda.

Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the Indians, you told me.

Michaelis.

Yes.

Rhoda.

Where?

Michaelis.

At Acoma.

Rhoda.

Where is that?

Michaelis.

Standing near the wall map, touches it.

In New Mexico, by the map.

Rhoda.

Comes nearer.

What is it like?

Michaelis.

It's—as you say—another world.

Rhoda.

Describe it to me.

Michaelis.

I couldn't make you see it. It's—centuries and centuries from our time.—And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed centuries away from my own life.

Rhoda.

My life has seemed far off, too—my old life—

Michaelis.

What do you mean by your old life?

Rhoda.

She breaks out impulsively.

I mean—I mean—. Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate and did my daily tasks, but—I wondered sometimes why people didn't see that I was dead, and scream at me.

Michaelis.

It was three days ago that I first saw you.

Rhoda.

Yes.

Michaelis.

Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.

Rhoda.

Yes.

Michaelis.

You were unhappy, then?

Rhoda.

The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.

Michaelis.

Why was that?

Rhoda.

I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.

Michaelis.

Have things here been hard and bitter?

Rhoda.

No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling—. The other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.

Michaelis.

I cannot think of you as anything but glad and free.

Rhoda.

When you met me on the road, and walked home with me, and said those few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, the dead dream was shattered, and I began once more to live.

Bell rings.

That is Aunt Mary's bell.

Rhoda goes out by the hall door, wheeling the invalid chair. Martha enters from the kitchen, carrying a steaming coffee-pot and a platter of smoking meat, which she places on the table. Michaelis bows to her.

Martha.

Snappishly.

Hope you slept well!

She goes to the outer door, rings the breakfast bell loudly, and exit to kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, slight of body, with hair just beginning to silver. Her face has the curious refinement which physical suffering sometimes brings. Annie lingers at the door, looking timidly at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. Beeler and takes her hand from the arm of the chair.

Michaelis.

You are better?

Mrs. Beeler.

Speaks with low intensity.

Much, much better.

He puts her hand gently back on the chair arm. Martha enters with other dishes. She pours out coffee, putting a cup at each plate. Mr. Beeler has entered from the kitchen, and the boy from outside.