which, from a woodpecker's view-point, undoubtedly must have seemed
stupid and a waste of time. But even in such trifles was the afternoon
spent; and when the children were again gathered, and Sandy, with a
delicacy which the schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them
quietly at the outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest
day of her weary life.

As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school term of Red
Gulch--to use a local euphuism--"dried up" also. In another day Miss
Mary would be free, and for a season, at least, Red Gulch would know
her no more. She was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek
resting on her hand, her eyes half closed in one of those daydreams in
which Miss Mary, I fear, to the danger of school discipline, was
lately in the habit of indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns,
and other woodland memories. She was so preoccupied with these and her
own thoughts that a gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or
translated itself into the remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. When at
last it asserted itself more distinctly, she started up with a flushed
cheek and opened the door. On the threshold stood a woman, the self-
assertion and audacity of whose dress were in singular contrast to her
timid, irresolute bearing. Miss Mary recognized at a glance the
dubious mother of her anonymous pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed,
perhaps she was only fastidious; but as she coldly invited her to
enter, she half unconsciously settled her white cuffs and collar, and
gathered closer her own chaste skirts. It was, perhaps, for this
reason that the embarrassed stranger, after a moment's hesitation,
left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in the dust beside the
door, and then sat down at the farther end of a long bench. Her voice
was husky as she began,--