“You mean Belle.  Alethea is as brave as her father was before her.”

“You’re right.  Poor little Belle!  Perhaps we’d better find some job or other round the adobe this afternoon.  There’ll be ructions.”

But the ructions did not take place that day.  It seems that Alethea-Belle told her scholars she was suffering severely from headache.  She begged them politely to be as quiet as possible.  Perhaps amazement constrained obedience.

“These foothill imps will kill her,” said Ajax.

Within a week we knew that the big boys were becoming unmanageable, but no such information leaked from Alethea-Belle’s lips.  Each evening at supper we asked how she had fared during the day.  Always she replied primly:  “I thank you; I’m getting along nicely, better than I expected.”

Mrs. Spafford, a peeper through doors and keyholes, explained the schoolmarm’s methods.

“I jest happened to be passin’ by,” she told me, “and I peeked in through—­through the winder.  That great big hoodlum of a George Spragg was a-sassin’ Miss Buchanan an’ makin’ faces at her.  The crowd was a-whoopin’ him up.  In the middle o’ the uproar she kneels down.  ’O Lord,’ says she, ’I pray Thee to soften the heart of pore George Spragg, and give me, a weak woman, the strength to prevail against his everlastin’ ignorance and foolishness!’ George got the colour of a beet, but he quit his foolin’.  Yes sir, she prays for ’em, and she coaxes ’em, an’ she never knows when she’s beat; but they’ll be too much for her.  She’s losin’ her appetite, an’ she don’t sleep good.  We won’t be boardin’ her much longer.”

But that night, as usual, when I asked Alethea-Belle how she did, she replied, in her prim, formal accents:  “I’m doing real well, I thank you; much, much better than I expected.”

Two days later I detected a bruise upon her forehead.  With great difficulty I extracted the truth.  Tom Eubanks had thrown an apple at the schoolmarm.

“And what did you do?”

Her grey eyes were unruffled, her delicately cut lips never smiled, as she replied austerely:  “I told Thomas that I was sure he meant well, but that if a boy wished to give an apple to a lady he’d ought to hand it politely, and not throw it.  Then I ate the apple.  It was a Newtown pippin, and real good.  After recess Thomas apologised.”

“What did the brute say?”

“He is not a brute.  He said he was sorry he’d thrown the pippin so hard.”

Next day I happened to meet Tom Eubanks.  He had a basket of Newtown pippins for the schoolmarm.  He was very red when he told me that Miss Buchanan liked—­apples.  Apples at that time did not grow in the brush-hills.  Tom had bought them at the village store.

* * * * *

But Alethea-Belle grew thinner and whiter.

Just before the end of the term the climax came.  I happened to find the little schoolmarm crying bitterly in a clump of sage-brush near the water-troughs.