"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot last. Something will turn up." That afternoon Gloriana turned up. We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans, bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber- coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon. Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly blue, a-quiver with light and heat. "Somebody's coming," said Ajax. The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills. "It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never ride in the dust. It must be a buggy." Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power. "Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax. "Possibly," I replied, "a cook." "She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones, dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and tell her we have never learned to read." I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair. "Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked askance into her face. "I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best." "Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?" "The lords?" "Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle- ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see-- me." A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun. "Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure." Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell- tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but not unpleasing. "It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's perfectly lovely--in moroccy." "One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I think he can read."