ed prose.
Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain
modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished
her eyes were full of tears.

"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy
your book."

Her hands trembled.

"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in
reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."

"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."

"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman,
compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."

"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the
cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother
cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."

"Ye must hev had awful nice mothers, both of ye," she said simply. "Do
I sell many books? No, sir. Farmer-folks in Californy ain't got the
money ter spend in readin' matter. They're in big luck these times if
they kin pay the interest on their mortgages. With wheat at eighty
cents a cental, an' barley not wuth the haulin', it seems most an
impertinence to ask grangers ter buy books."

"Do you make twenty dollars a month at the business?"

She shook her head sorrowfully.

"This is September," said Ajax, "and within six weeks the rains will
begin. What will you do then?"

She regarded him wistfully, but made no reply.

"Your mule," continued Ajax, "is about played out--poor beast. Will
you stay here this winter, and keep house for us? I daresay you cook
very nicely; and next spring, if you feel like it, you can start out
bookselling again."

"My cookin' is sech as white folks kin eat, but----"

"We will pay you twenty dollars a month."

"The wages air more'n enough, but----"

"And the work will be light."

"I ain't scar't o' work," she retorted valiantly, "but----"

"It's settled, then," said Ajax, in his masterful way. "If you'll get
down, I'll unhitch the mule and put him in the barn. My brother will
show you the house."

She descended, protesting, but we could not catch the words that fell
from her lips.

"You must tell us your name," said Ajax

"It's Gloriana," she faltered.

"Gloriana? Gloriana--what?"

"Jes--Gloriana."

* * * * *

"She is a type," said Ajax, a few days later.

"A type of what?"

"Of the women who suffer and a