It was, perhaps, just as well to have her mind reverted to realistic fact.

The presence of Haze Ruff, the astounding truth of the contact with his huge sheep-defiled hands, had been profanation and degradation under which she sickened with fear and shame.

Yet hovering back of her shame and rising anger seemed to be a pale, monstrous, and indefinable thought, insistent and accusing, with which she must sooner or later reckon.

It might have been the voice of the new side of her nature, but at that moment of outraged womanhood, and of revolt against the West, she would not listen.

It might, too, have been the still small voice of conscience.