“You’ve noted,” he said, “that a greaser jest naterally hates ter handle mares.  He rides a horse, an’ he’s right.  The best o’ mares will kick.  Now, Glory Anne can’t help bein’ a woman, but I swear she’s bin mighty well broke.  She works right up into the collar—­quiet an’ steady, an’ keeps her tongue, whar it belongs, shet up in her mouth.  I’ve seen a sight o’ wimmen I thot less of than Glory Anne.”

I repeated these words to Ajax.  He admitted their significance, in connection with bonnets and furbelows, and we both went to bed with a sound of marriage-bells in our ears.  We slept soundly, convinced that neither Gloriana nor Uncle Jake would leave our service, and at breakfast the next morning discoursed at length upon the subject of wedding presents.

“What would you suggest, Gloriana,” said Ajax, “as suitable for a middle-aged bridegroom?”

She considered the question thoughtfully, a delightful smile upon her lips.

“Ther’s nothin’ more interestin’ than marryin’, excep’ mebbee the courtin’,” she replied softly, “an’ a gift is, so ter speak, a message o’ love an’ tenderness from one human heart t’ another.  With poor folks, who ain’t experts in the use o’ words, a gift means more ’n tongue kin tell.  I’m sot myself on makin’ things.  Every stitch I put into a piece o’ fancy work fer—­a friend makes me feel the happier.  Sech sewin’ is a reel labour o’ love, an’ I kinder hate ter hurry over it, because, as I was sayin’, it means so much that I’d like ter say, but bein’ ignorant don’t know how.  A present fer a middle-aged bridegroom?  Well, now, if ’twas me, I’d make him a nice comfortable bed-spread, with the best an’ prettiest o’ stitchin.”

We both laughed.  Uncle Jake under a gorgeous counterpane would make a graven image smile.  Gloriana laughed with us.

“It’d be most too dainty fer some,” she said, with a surprising sense of humour, “but I was thinkin’ ye wanted a gift fer one o’ yer high-toned relations in the old country.  No?  Well, take yer time:  a gift ain’t lightly chosen.”

“I shall tackle Uncle Jake,” said Ajax, as he rode over the ranch.  “Gloriana is too discreet, but she bought that bonnet for her own wedding.”

Uncle Jake, however, was cunning of fence.

“I don’t feel lonesome,” he declared.  “Ye see I’m a cattle man, an’ I like the travelled trails.  I ain’t huntin’ no quicksands.  Many a feller has mired down tryin’ a new crossin’.  No, sir, I calkilate ter remain single.”

“He’s very foxy,” commented Ajax, “but he means business.  It really bothers me that they won’t confide in us.”

The November rains were unusually heavy that year, and confined us to the house.  Gloriana had borrowed a sewing-machine from a neighbour, and worked harder than ever, inflaming her eyes and our curiosity.  We speculated daily upon her past, present and future, having little else to distract us in a life that was duller than a Chinese comedy.  We waxed fat in idleness, but the cook grew lean.