ever, the appearance of not hearing him and of not wanting to hear.

"Say, Tee-e-cher!"

The schoolma'am refused to stop, or to turn her head a fraction of an
inch, and Weary's face sobered a little. It was the first time that
inimitable "Tee-e-cher" of his had failed to bring the smile back into
the eyes of Miss Satterly. He looked after her dubiously. Her
shoulders were thrown well back and her feet pressed their imprint
firmly into the yellow dust of the trail. In a minute she would be
quite out of hearing.

Weary got up, took a step and grasped Glory's trailing bridle-rein and
hurried after her much faster than Glory liked and which he reproved
with stiffened knees and a general pulling back on the reins.

"Say! You wouldn't get mad at a little thing like that, would yuh?"
expostulated Weary, when he overtook her. "You know I didn't mean
anything, Girlie."

"I do not consider it a little thing," said the schoolma'am, icily.

Thus rebuffed, Weary walked silently beside her up the hill--silently,
that is, save for the subdued jingling of his spurs. He was beginning
to realize that there was an uncomfortable, heavy feeling in his chest,
on the side where his heart was. Still, he was of a hopeful nature and
presently tried again.

"How many times must I say I'm sorry, Schoolma'am? You don't look so
pretty when you're mad; you've got dimples, remember, and yuh ought to