Marise knew as little as possible of her own country. Her early memories wavered between New York when things went well, and Brooklyn or even Jersey City when the family luck was out. Her first experiences on the stage had given her small parts in New York. Mums had refused fairly good chances for the pretty girl, rather than let her go "on the road." Then had come the great and bewildering success as "Dolores," which had kept the young star playing at one theatre until mother and daughter transplanted themselves to England. This "wedding trip" with Garth was the first long journey that Marise had ever made in her native land.

It was the most extraordinary thing which had ever happened, to be travelling with Garth—except being married to him! And, after the first twenty-four hours of "Mrs. John Garthhood," she had not felt "married" at all, during the fortnight which followed the wedding.

For one thing, she had been desperately busy preparing to leave the stage "for good." There were so many people to see! And the person of whom she had seen least was her husband. He, too, appeared to be busy about his own affairs, and Marise was rather surprised to discover how many men (his acquaintances were nearly all men, and men of importance) he knew in New York.

Every night he took her to the theatre, and returned to escort her home in the car he had so extravagantly hired. That was in the rÔle of adoring bridegroom which he had engaged himself to play! But apart from luncheons and dinners eaten with wife and mother-in-law on show in public places, these were the only occasions when they met and talked together. At night, though Marise still stuck to the bargain and occupied her room in the "bridal suite," she never knew when Garth entered his quarters next door, or when he went out. But now, here they were in a train, destined to be close companions for days on end.

The girl's restless fear of the unknown in Garth's nature, which had almost gone to sleep in New York, waked up again. Yet somehow it wasn't as disagreeable as it ought to have been—and indeed, she had rather missed it! There was a stifled excitement in going away with him which interested her intensely; and she was interested in the journey itself.

Garth had made everything very easy and comfortable for his wife, so far as outward arrangements went. She had a stateroom (it happened by chance to be the same in which Miss Marks had travelled a fortnight ago, but ZÉlie's vows of "getting even" did not haunt the place), and close by, CÉline had a whole "section" to herself. Garth lurked in the distance, just where, Marise didn't know. He must, of course, take his bride to meals, and sit chatting with her for some hours each day in her stateroom, lest people who knew their faces should wonder and whisper about the strange honeymoon couple. But so far as Marise could tell, he seemed inclined to keep his word with her.

What would Mums—who had sobbed at parting—think if she knew that her martyred Marise was quite happy and chirpy? Yet so it was! The girl was keenly conscious of Garth's presence, but she couldn't help being as pleased as a child with the neat arrangement of her stateroom; with the coffee-coloured porter whose grin glittered like a diamond tiara set in the wrong place; with the cream-tinted maid who brought a large paper bag for her toque, and said, "My! ain't your hat just sweet?" and with the wee wooden houses they passed so close she could almost have snatched flower-pots from their window-sills, as "Alice" snatched marmalade, falling down to Wonderland through the Rabbit Hole. That was just at the start, for soon the train was flashing through fair green country with little rivers, and trees like English trees.

Marise laughed aloud at the huge advertisements which disfigured the landscape; unpleasant-looking, giant men cut out of wood; Brobdingnag boys munching cakes; profile cows the size of elephants, and bottles tall as steeples. Then suddenly she checked herself. It was the first time she had laughed with Garth! He, too, was smiling. Their eyes met. The man seemed very human for that moment; young, too, and in spite of his bigness, boyish. What would she have thought of him, she wondered, if they had met in an ordinary way?

The train stopped at very few places. Indeed, when in motion it had an air of stopping at nothing! It was fun going to the restaurant car. Men stared at Marise, and she saw that some of the women stared at Garth. Did they admire him? Would she have admired him if she'd seen him for the first time as well-dressed as he was now, wearing a smart Guards' tie, and if she had never learned to think of him as a Devil and a Brute?

Certainly his hair was nice. It grew well on his forehead, and brushed straight back it would have had the effect of a bronze helmet if there hadn't been a slight ripple to break the smoothness.

"Monsieur Garth has received a telegram in the train," said CÉline that night as she helped "Madame" to undress. "He has no stateroom himself. I suppose he could not get one. He is in a 'section,' no better than mine. He is sitting there now reading the telegram. I think he has read it several times. Perhaps it is from Madame his mother, whom we go to visit."

"Perhaps," echoed Marise. But somehow she felt sure it wasn't. It wasn't about business, either! Strange that you could get telegrams in trains. He must have told the person to wire; and the person was a woman—ZÉlie Marks, most likely. All Marise's resentment against Garth came back, as her mother would have wished for Severance's sake.

At Chicago, where they arrived next morning, they had to stop all day until the Santa FÉ Limited left at night. Garth took his wife to "see the sights." He was quite agreeable, in an impersonal way, and so was she; but they did not laugh together again. They talked only of the moment, never planned ahead; yet Marise's thoughts kept flying on to the end of the journey, and what life would be like then.

The morning after brought them to Kansas City, where ZÉlie, bound on her secret mission, had got off to buy beautiful things for the far-away house. But Major and Mrs. John Garth did not get off. They went on and on, till the flat country of waving grass turned to red desert dotted darkly with pines, and having here and there a mysterious mound like an ancient tumulus. Instead of homely villages there were groups of adobe houses, such as Marise vaguely pictured in Africa. Out of the hard scarlet earth pushed grey rocks like jagged teeth of giant, buried skulls; and at last it seemed that the train was rushing straight to the setting sun where it would be engulfed in fire.

Now and then when the girl glanced at Garth, who was absorbed in the wistful ecstasy of homecoming, it occurred to her that he had changed. His eyes were more tawny than ever they had been. Perhaps it was the red reflection shining up into them! Now she understood better than before why they had looked like the eyes of a lion that sees his lost and distant desert. This was Garth's desert—his, and he loved it! A queer little thrill of involuntary sympathy ran through her. She felt that it might be in her also to love this wild rose-red and golden land, with its dark, stunted trees, and the draped Indian figures silhouetted on slim ponies against a crystal sky. It appealed to something in her soul that had never yet found what it wanted. It made her feel that she was very little in her outlook, her aspirations, but that she might some day grow to a stature worth while.

It was morning—late morning—when they reached Albuquerque, once settled and named by Spanish explorers. As the train drew into the station Marise glanced out with veiled eagerness. Yes, she was eager, but she didn't want Garth to know that. It would please him too much—more than it was safe to please him, maybe!

There was a surprisingly delightful hotel built in old Spanish style, which seemed to be part of the station itself: and on the platform were knots of Indians so picturesque that the girl nearly cried out in sheer pleasure.

Garth had come into the stateroom to help gather up her things. She had been wondering for some moments at the strained frown between his eyebrows when he should have been smiling with joy. Suddenly he spoke.

"Marise" (he always called her Marise, and she had ceased to resent it), "there's something I want to ask you to do. I kept putting it off, but now the last minute has come. You know I think a lot of Mrs. Mooney, my adopted mother, don't you?"

"You've told me so. And it goes without saying, as you had an idÉe fixe that you must make her this visit at any cost," Marise replied.

"At any cost—that's just it," he repeated. "Well, she's as old-fashioned as you're new-fashioned. She couldn't understand a motive for marriage except love—she'd hardly believe there was any other! I don't want to shock or worry her if I can avoid it. Will you please help me out in keeping her as happy about—us, as you reasonably can?"

"Of course I don't want to hurt her," said Marise. "I hate hurting people—as a general rule, though you mayn't believe it. What do you want me to do—something special?"

"Yes. Could you bring yourself to call me 'Jack' before her? She'd notice if you always called me 'You,' as you do—as you have since I pointed out that 'Major Garth' didn't fit the situation."

"Certainly. That's easy enough!" Marise reassured him. "I'm not an actress for nothing. Many a man whom I wouldn't dream of calling by his Christian name off the stage has had to be 'dearest' and 'darling' on!"

Garth flushed darkly, she could not quite guess why. "Thank you," he said. "We'll consider ourselves in the theatre, then, when we're at Mothereen's, playing—don't you say?—'opposite' parts. I'll try and make yours not too hard. I don't know whether she'll have come to the depot to meet us or not, but—hurrah, there she is!"

His voice rang out as Marise had never yet heard it ring. Yes, she had once—just for an instant—that first Sunday when he said, "I would sell my soul for you!"—or some foolish words of the kind.

Since then, she had forgotten those tones, and thought his voice hard; but now its warmth and mellowness brought back a memory.

The train was stopping. In front of a wonderful window full of Indian curios stood a little woman looking up and waving a handkerchief. She was dressed in black, with the oldest-fashioned sort of widow's bonnet. And if you'd seen her on top of the North Pole, you would have known she was Irish.

Garth flung a window up, and shouted, "Mothereen!"