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 it, so
proclaiming itself a horseman galloping swiftly towards her. The color
spread from the schoolma'am's cheeks to her brow and throat. Her
fingers forgot their cunning and plucked harrowing discords from the
strings, but her lips were parted and smiling tremulously. It was
late--she had almost given up looking--but he was coming! She knew be
would come. Coming at a breakneck pace--he must be pretty anxious,
too. The schoolma'am recovered a bit of control and revolved in her
mind several pert forms of greeting. She would not be too ready to
forgive him--it would do him good to keep him anxious and uncertain for
a while before she gave in.

Now he was near the place where he would turn off the main road and
gallop straight to her. Glory always made that turn of his own accord,
lately. Weary had told her, last Sunday, how he could never get Glory
past that turn, any more, without a fight, no matter what might be the