tion box, for I've seen her somewhere, sure."

"She's Miss Sara Wilkins, the new school-teacher," Green replied, glad to
impart information. "She was imported from the fur East while you was
away; called on in a hurry to take the place of Mrs. Pears, who died on
us, right in the midst of the last term, poor critter. She had no way with
youngsters, Mrs. Pears hadn't, though she came recommended as a treasure:
so p'raps it's just as well for us our treasure's laid up in heaven. We've
got a surprisin' lot of children in this city, for such a young one; but
our men are doin' that well they feel justified in sendin' fur their
families. We're gettin' a mighty nice society: some o' our ladies from the
East, as far off as Omaha; and 'twas the minister's wife stood out for
this Miss Wilkins, an old school-fellow o' hern. Pity she ain't handsome,
as we can't boast but two other unmarried gals in our set."

Nick reflected. Where had he seen that small-featured, conscientious
little face? He seemed to associate it with some agreeable and not very
distant episode; yet its intelligent insignificance was so overshadowed by
the pleasantness of the episode itself, that he now tried in vain to
identify it with a searchlight of recognition. "I give up," he said to
himself discontentedly. "Maybe it'll come to me later." And then,
suddenly, it did.

The new school-teacher at Lucky Star City was the little woman who had
arrived with the Native Daughters at the Santa Barbara hotel, and would
have been swamped by them had not Angela taken pity on her. No wonder it
had been an effort to label his impression, for no woman had a face worth
the name of face for Nick when Angela's was to be seen. But perhaps Miss
Wilkins had not had the same difficulty in disentangling him from among
her impressions of the past, for she had flashed upon him a glance, bright
with interest, before casting down her eyes decorously and passing on.

"Here comes the Dook now," remarked the landlord of the Eureka. "By the
look of him I guess his country-man wouldn't part with anything 'cept a
drink. If he keeps clear of the liquor belt, as a general thing, it's only
because his fee-nan-shel situation don't run to it. I'll introduce you."

A man approached, wearing a shambling air of discouragement, until he saw
that he was under observation; whereupon his muscles tightened, and he
pulled himself together, straightening his narrow shoulders and throwing
back his small h