She searched my face as though seeking the true meaning of my words; then her eyes fell on my sample case, which was still clutched in my left hand. “Oh, you are selling something,” she exclaimed. “What is it, books?” “No, not books. And I’m not selling anything either—not in this town.” “Oh, so that’s it. You must have started on the wrong street. Suppose you jump in with me and ride out to the house. Maybe it will change your luck.” I hesitated for a moment, my usual faith in human nature somewhat shaken by recent experiences. “Come on, now. Jump in. I’ll bring you back to wherever you want to go, whenever you are ready.” I walked around the wagon and clambered in. The ponies bounded forward, and away we flew, winding up among low, rolling hills, until we came to a small house perched on the side of a knoll. Care of the team had occupied my companion’s attention to the exclusion of conversation until we had entered the house. Then, as she set out a substantial lunch—afternoon tea, she termed it—we began to get acquainted. Mrs. Holiday’s home was in Cheyenne, but her husband owned this large stock ranch, which led them to make frequent visits to Sydney. As evening approached, she declared her intention of driving into town after Dan and keeping the two of us as long as our business permitted us to remain in the neighbourhood. Leaving me to devour a tableful of newspapers and late magazines, the first I had seen in months, she sped away with her frisky team and returned with Dan, who had grown quite accustomed to my peculiar way of making myself at home in unusual places. As they drove into the yard, Mr. Holiday rode in from the range and we all were soon on a most friendly footing. Mr. Adams had already left a couple of sign orders with Dan to put up the next morning, but instead of going into town with him to resume my interrupted labours as a pedler, I decided to take a day off to wash and mend our clothing and incidentally starch my crumpled courage by an interchange of confidences with my hostess, who possessed a peculiarly invigorating temperament. Her early years had been full of privations and severe struggles to gain an education. She had become a high school teacher, but her health failed, forcing her to seek the high altitudes of the Rockies. Here she had met and married Mr. Holiday, a well-to-do cattle man, and they had built a home in Cheyenne. One child—a girl—was born to them, but she had died some two years previously. Since her death the mother had been almost mad with loneliness, finding her chief consolation in mothering the calves and colts and other young creatures of the range. She was greatly interested in the history of our experiences, and as I was telling her the story of Mandy of the corn fields, she suddenly leaned forward with sparkling eyes.