slice of cheese. It was nice, too, to have as good a match as Mr.
Johnson paying you attentions and to see the other girls fluttering
the curtains at their windows to see you go by with him.

Dry Valley bought a buggy with yellow wheels and a fine trotter in San
Antonio. Every day he drove out with Panchita. He was never seen to
speak to her when they were walking or driving. The consciousness of
his clothes kept his mind busy; the knowledge that he could say
nothing of interest kept him dumb; the feeling that Panchita was there
kept him happy.

He took her to parties and dances, and to church. He tried--oh, no man
ever tried so hard to be young as Dry Valley did. He could not dance;
but he invented a smile which he wore on these joyous occasions, a
smile that, in him, was as great a concession to mirth and gaiety as
turning hand-springs would be in another. He began to seek the company
of the young men in the town--even of the boys. They accepted him as a
decided damper, for his attempts at sportiveness were so forced that
they might as well have essayed their games in a cathedral. Neither he
nor any other could estimate what progress he had made with Panchita.

The end came suddenly in one day, as often disappears the false
afterglow before a November sky and wind.

Dry Valley was to call for the girl one afternoon at six for a walk.
An afternoon walk in Santa Rosa was a feature of social life that
called for the pink of one's wardrobe. So Dry Valley began gorgeously
to array himself; and so early that he finished early, and went over
to the O'Brien cottage. As he neared the porch on the crooked walk
from the gate he heard sounds of revelry within. He stopped and looked