in the sunlight, the air was
heavy with the fragrance of the flowers which yielded their largess to
the marauders.

It was dark when he rode down toward the town. It lay before him, all
twinkling lights. Above it hung a thin moon and countless stars. It
might have been a fairy town under the kindly cover of the night.

But when he reached the central square the illusion ceased. It was what
men had made it--sordid, cheap. He stopped Mary Pick under a pepper tree
and surveyed the scene.

Jane and her basket were the center of an excited group. She had almost
reached the end of her supplies, and some one had suggested auctioning
off the remainder. Jane had protested, but her protests had not availed.
She had turned to Tommy for help, to Henry, to Atwood. They had done
their best. But the man who led the crowd had an object in his
leadership. It was Tillotson of the little hotel--red-faced,
whisky-soaked.

"Sandwich Jane, Sandwich Jane!" he shouted. "That's the name for her,
boys."

And they took it up and shouted "Sandwich Jane!"

It was at this moment that O-liver stopped under the pepper tree. The
bright light fell directly on Jane's distressed face. He saw the
swept-back brightness of her hair, her clear-cut profile, her white
skin, her white teeth. But he saw more than this. "By Jove," he said,
"she's a lady!"

If he had been talking to the men he would have said "Gosh!" It was only
when he was alone that he permitted himself the indulgence of more
formal language.

That Jane was harried he could see. And suddenly he rode forward on Mary
Pick.

The crowd made way for him expectantly. There were always interesting
developments when O-liver was on the scene.

"Gentlemen," he said, "let the lady speak for herself. I am not sure
what you are trying to do, but it is evidently something she doesn't
want done."

Jane flashed a grateful glance up at him. He was the unknown knight
throwing down the gauntlet in her defense. He was different from the
others--his voice was different.

"They want to auction off my sandwiches," she explained, "and they won't
listen."

"I'm sure they will listen." O-liver on Mary Pick, with his hat off and
his mane tossed back, might have been Henry of the white plumes. "Of
course they'll listen."

And they did!

Jane stood on her box and addressed them.

"I don't want to get any more for my sandwiches than they are worth,"
she said earnestly. "I make good ones, and I sell the