re not strong There are many such in
this Western country. I'd like to hear her story. Is she married or
single? old or young? crazy or sane?"

"Gloriana," I answered, "satisfies our appetites but not our
curiosity."

As time passed, her reticence upon all personal matters became
exasperating. At the end of the first month she demanded and received
her salary. Moreover, refusing our escort, she tramped three dusty
miles to the village post-office, and returned penniless but jubilant.
At supper Ajax said--"It's more blessed to give than to receive--eh,
Gloriana?"

She compressed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling. After supper
Ajax commented upon her improved appearance in her presence. He
confessed himself at a loss to account for this singular
rejuvenescence.

Expecting company, Gloriana?"

"Mebbee-an' mebbee not."

"You brought home a large parcel," said Ajax. "A precious parcel. Why,
you held it as a woman holds her first baby."

She smiled, and bade us good-night.

"I've no call ter stan' aroun' gassin'," she assured us. "I've work
ter do--a plenty of it, too."

During the month of October she spent all her leisure hours locked up
in her own room; and, waiting upon us at meals, quoted freely that
famous book--_A Golden Word from Mother_. We often heard her
singing softly to herself, keeping time to the click of her needle.
When pay-day came she demanded leave of absence. The village, she told
us, was sadly behind the times, and with our permission she proposed
to drive her mule and buckboard to the county seat--San Lorenzo.

"I've business of importance," she said proudly, "ter transack."

She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the
first.

"I've bought a bonnet," she confessed shyly, "an' trimmins."

We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases: white satin ribbon,
jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of
Ravenswood. The "locating" of this splendid plume was no easy task.

"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an'
ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make
fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an
ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that
sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one
side, and a slyly complace