t
was a June evening, and the sun about setting; and somehow it all was
so sort of peaceful and uncommon--with everybody in sight sober, and no
fighting anywhere, and that little old lady going along, believing
Palomitas was like that always, instead of the hell on earth it
was--some of us more'n half believed we'd gone to sleep and got stuck in
a dream.

Things was made dreamier by the looks and doings of the Sage-Brush
Hen. She was the only lady of the town, the Hen was, who took part in
the ceremonies--and likely it was just about as well, for the sake of
keeping clear of surprises, the rest of 'em laid low. As Hart and his
aunt went off together up the track, the Hen showed up coming along
down it; and she was dressed that pretty and quiet--in the plainest
sort of a white frock, and wearing a white sun-bonnet--and was looking
so demure, like she could when she'd a mind to, nobody knowed at first
who she was.

"Being the minister's wife, I've been taking the liberty, Mr. Hart,"
she said, smiling pleasant, when the three of 'em come together on the
track, "of looking around a little up at your place to see that
everything has been fixed for your company the way it should be." (She
hadn't been nowheres near Hart's place, it turned out--but Gospel
truth wasn't just what there was most of that day in Palomitas.) She
went right on down the track without stopping, passing on Hart's side,
and saying to him: "My husband expects you as usual at the Friendly
Aid meeting to-morrow evening, Mr. Hart. We never seem half to get
along, you know, when you're not there."

Hart's aunt give a little jump, and said: "Why, William, that must be
Mrs. Charles, the minister's wife. What a pleasant-spoken lady she is!
We met her husband just as we were driving into town."

Hart said he come pretty near saying back to her, "The hell you
did!"--Hart talked that careless way, sometimes--but he said he pulled
up before it got out, and all he did say was, "Oh!"

"She must be at the head of the Dorcas Society that Mr. Hill was
telling me about," Hart's aunt went on; "and like enough she manages
the kindergarten, too. I suppose, William, it's not surprising you
haven't said anything in your letters about the Dorcas Society--for
all you were so liberal in helping it--but I do think you might have
told me about the kindergarten, knowing what a hobby of mine
kindergartens are. I want to go and see it to-morrow morning, the
first thing."

"It'