Expecting company, Gloriana?”

“Mebbee-an’ mebbee not.”

“You brought home a large parcel,” said Ajax.  “A precious parcel.  Why, you held it as a woman holds her first baby.”

She smiled, and bade us good-night.

“I’ve no call ter stan’ aroun’ gassin’,” she assured us.  “I’ve work ter do—­a plenty of it, too.”

During the month of October she spent all her leisure hours locked up in her own room; and, waiting upon us at meals, quoted freely that famous book—­A Golden Word from Mother.  We often heard her singing softly to herself, keeping time to the click of her needle.  When pay-day came she demanded leave of absence.  The village, she told us, was sadly behind the times, and with our permission she proposed to drive her mule and buckboard to the county seat—­San Lorenzo.

“I’ve business of importance,” she said proudly, “ter transack.”

She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the first.

“I’ve bought a bonnet,” she confessed shyly, “an’ trimmins.”

We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases:  white satin ribbon, jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of Ravenswood.  The “locating” of this splendid plume was no easy task.

“Maxims,” sighed Gloriana, “is mostly rubbish.  Now, fine feathers—­an’ ther ain’t a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county—­don’t make fine birds.  A sparrer is always a sparrer, an’ can’t look like an ostridge noway.  But, good land! feathers is my weakness.”

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

“I bought more’n a bonnet yesterday,” she said, with her head on one side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips.  “Yes, sir, stuff ter make a dress—­a party dress, the finest kind o’ goods.”

Ajax stared helplessly at me.  The mystery that encompassed this woman was positively indecent.

“An’ shoes,” she concluded.  “I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with French tips—­very dressy.”

Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved.  Our head vaquero, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana’s flesh-pots.  He lived in an old adobe near the big corral, boarded himself and a couple of Mexicans upon tortillas, frijoles and bacon, and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and woman hater.  We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle slowly.  To him the sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands:  pies, “jell’” (compounded according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the laughter of children!  What misogynist can withstand such arts?  I remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his approval of our cordon bleu in no measured terms.