day or the hour.

Now he would swing into the school-house trail. Miss Satterly raised
both hands with a very feminine gesture and patted her hair
tentatively, tucking in a stray lock here and there.

Her hands dropped heavily to her lap, just as the blood dropped away
from her cheeks and the happy glow dulled in her eyes. It was not
Weary. It was the Swede who worked for Jim Adams and who rode a sorrel
horse which, at a distance, resembled Glory.

Mechanically she watched him go on down the trail and out of sight;
picked up her guitar which had grown suddenly heavy, crept inside and
closed the door and locked it She looked around the clean, eerily
silent schoolroom, walked with echoing steps to the desk and laid her
head down among the cans of sweet-smelling, prairie flowers and cried
softly, in a tired, heartbreaking fashion that made her throat ache,
and her head.

The shadows had flowed over the coulee-rim and the hilltops were
smothered in gloom when Miss Satterly went home that night, and her
aunt Meeker sent her straight to bed and dosed her with horrible home
remedies.

By morning she had recovered her spirit--her revengeful spirit, which
she kept as the hours wore on and Weary did not come. She would teach
him a lesson, she told herself often. By evening, however, her mood
softened. There were many things that could have kept him away against
his will; he was not his own master, and it was shipping time.
Probably he had been out with the roundup, or something. She decided