ht, papers strewed the desk as before, and the schoolma'am
stood by the window, her elbows planted on the unpainted sill, and
watched the trail listlessly. Her eyes were big and wistful, like a
hurt child's, and her cheeks were not red as usual, nor even pink. But
the trail lay again brown, and silent, and lonesome, with no quick
hoof-beats to send the dust swirling up in a cloud.

The shadows flowed into the coulee until it was full to the brim and
threatening the golden hilltop with a brown veil of shade before Miss
Satterly locked her door and went home. When she reached her aunt
Meeker's she did not want any supper and she said her head ached. But
that was not quite true; it was not her head that ached so much; it was
her heart.

The third day, the schoolma'am fussed a long time with her hair, which
she did in four different styles. The last style was the one which
Weary had pronounced "out uh sight"--only she added a white chiffon bow
which she had before kept sacred to dances and which Weary always
admired. At noon she encouraged the children to gather wild flowers
from the coulee, and she filled several tin cans with water from the
spring and arranged the bouquets with much care. Weary loved flowers.
Nearly every time he came he had a little bunch stuck under his
hat-band. A few she put in her hair, along with the chiffon bow. She
urged the children through their work and dismissed them at eleven
minutes to four and told them to go straight home.

After she had swept the floor and dusted everything that could be
dusted so that the school-room had the peculiar, immaculate emptiness
and forlornness, like a church on a week day, and had taken a few of
the brightest flowers and pinned them upon her white shirt-waist. Miss
Satterly tuned her guitar in minor and went out and sat upon the shady
doorstep and waited frankly, strumming plaintive little airs while she
watched the trail. To-morrow was Labor Day, and so he would certainly
ride over to-night to see if she had really meant it (Miss Satterly did
not explain to herself what "it" was; surely, there was no need).

At half-past five--Miss Satterly had looked at her watch seventeen
times during the interval--a tiny cloud of dust rose over the brow of
the hill, and her heart danced in her chest until she could scarce
breathe.

The cloud grew and grew and began drifting down the trail, and behind
it a black something rose over the hilltop and followed i