ill it seemed lean and grey,
and he pitched forward, face down, upon the desk.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The author acknowledges a conspicuous indebtedness to a Southwestern
weekly for this editorial.

_Chapter Thirteen_

MISS SALLY MADEIRA'S SWEETHEART

Miss Sally Madeira, trying to make her way down Main Street one Saturday
afternoon, in the early spring of the year 1900, had to go very slowly
because of the country people in front of the Grange. Occasionally some
of the farm-wives called to her shily. The road was noisy and dusty with
the passing of mule-teams, buggies, buckboards, riders on horseback. Out
of the continuous rattle a child's voice piped shrilly. The owner of the
voice was a little girl who wore a hat with a bunch of cherries on it.
She stood up in the bed of a farm-waggon and screamed at Miss Madeira,
who at once made her way to the edge of the side-walk of broken bricks
and waited for the little girl's waggon to come in to the curb. The
waggon was full of children, but Miss Madeira was somehow able to call
them all by name.

"He gimme fifty cents!" was what the cherry-hat little girl said
immediately, with some genius for steering conversation toward the
things that interested her.

"You rich thing!" cried Miss Madeira, and then foolishly, and
unnecessarily, inquired, "who is he?"

"Yo' sweetheart."

Miss Madeira lowered her voice in such a suggestive manner that when the
little girl spoke again her voice was lowered, too.

"When did you see him?" asked Miss Madeira.

"See him ev' day. I cand go daown to Sowfoot by myse'f. He's sick." Miss
Madeira looked quickly at some of the older members of the family in the
waggon. They were a hill farm family from Sowfoot Crossing
neighbourhood. "Yep, he's been sick,--with the malary simlike," was what
the older members had to say upon the subject. Miss Madeira quickly left
the subject and talked about the corn crop and the price of chickens for
a little while, then presently went on down Main Street toward her
father's bank, where her black horses were hitched.

Far down Main Street, in front of one of the frame houses that edged
the street on either side, some children were enjoying a bonfire of dead
leaves, front doors were opening and women were coming out to watch the
fire; and, by their interest-lit eyes and by what they called to each
other across the slumberous afternoon air, were showing that they were
skilled in getting diversion out of s