She arrived at Paradise on the ramshackle old stage-coach late one Saturday afternoon.  Ajax and I carried her small hair-trunk into the ranch-house; Mrs. Spafford received her.  We retreated to the corrals.

“She’ll never, never do,” said Ajax.

“Never,” said I.

Alethea-Belle Buchanan looked about eighteen; and her face was white as the dust that lay thick upon her grey linen cloak.  Under the cloak we had caught a glimpse of a thin, slab-chested figure.  She wore thread gloves, and said “I thank you” in a prim, New England accent.

“Depend upon it, she’s had pie for breakfast ever since she was born,” said Ajax, “and it’s not agreed with her.  She’ll keep a foothill school in order just about two minutes—­and no longer!”

At supper, however, she surprised us.  She was very plain-featured, but the men—­the rough teamsters, for instance—­could not keep their eyes off her.  She was the most amazing mixture of boldness and timidity I had ever met.  We were about to plump ourselves down at table, for instance, when Miss Buchanan, folding her hands and raising her eyes, said grace; but to our first questions she replied, blushing, in timid monosyllables.

After supper, Mrs. Spafford and she washed up.  Later, they brought their sewing into the sitting-room.  While we were trying to thaw the little schoolmarm’s shyness, a mouse ran across the floor.  In an instant Miss Buchanan was on her chair.  The mouse ran round the room and vanished; the girl who had been sent to Paradise to keep in order the turbulent children of the foothills stepped down from her chair.

“I’m scared to death of mice,” she confessed.  My brother Ajax scowled.

“Fancy sending that whey-faced little coward—­here!” he whispered to me.

“Have you taught school before?” I asked.

“Oh yes, indeed,” she answered; “and I know something of your foothill folks.  I’ve been a book agent.  Oh, indeed?  You know that.  Well, I did first-rate, but that was the book, which sold itself—­a beautiful book.  Maybe you know it—­The Milk of Human Kindness?  When we’re better acquainted, I’d like to read you,” she looked hard at Ajax, “some o’ my favourite passages.”

“Thanks,” said Ajax stiffly.

Next day was Sunday.  At breakfast the schoolmarm asked Ajax if there was likely to be a prayer-meeting.

“A prayer-meeting, Miss Buchanan?”

“It’s the Sabbath, you know.”

“Yes—­er—­so it is.  Well, you see,” he smiled feebly, “the cathedral isn’t built yet.”

“Why, what’s the matter with the schoolhouse?  I presume you’re all church-members?”

Her grey eyes examined each of us in turn, and each made confession.  One of the teamsters was a Baptist; another a Latter-Day Adventist; the Spaffords were Presbyterians; we, of course, belonged to the Church of England.

“We ought to have a prayer-meeting,” said the little schoolmarm.