Mr. Green was just about to round off his ultimatum with a spurt of tobacco-juice aimed at a passing cat, when he checked himself hastily at sight of a woman.  What became of the tobacco-juice was a mystery or a conjuring trick, but the cat’s somewhat blunted sensibilities, and the lady’s—­not yet blunted—­were spared.

“Who’s that?” Nick inquired in a low, respectful voice, when Green had touched the place where his hat would have been if he had had it on, and the young woman, bowing with stiff politeness, had gone by.

“What, don’t you know?” the landlord of the Eureka Hotel replied with a question.  “But I forgot, you ain’t shown up around here much since you blow’d hack from the East.  The fellers say Noo York’s kinder got your goat, and you’re sheddin’ your feathers in these lonesome wilds, pinin’ after the theayters and swell doin’s in the Waldorf-Astoria.  But I tell ’em ’nope, that ain’t Nick Hilliard.  He’s true-blue to the Golden West.”

“Right you are,” said Nick.  “All the same, I don’t know who the lady is, and I’m sure I never saw her here, though I have a sort of feelin’ I remember her face.”

“Met in another world, mebbe?” Green chuckled.  “She ain’t no great looker, though, more’s the pity for our young sparks that could do with a noo beauty at Lucky Star.  She’s no chicken, either; and her face is the kind of face that to see once is to forget twice, accordin’ to your friend the Dook, who’s great on what he calls epergrams, when he’s feelin’ well.”

“Oh, is he?” Nick’s hopeful expression lost some of its glow, for this trait of the Dook’s did not strike him as attractive.  “He ain’t my friend yet.  But you haven’t told me who the lady is.  Maybe her name will shake up my recollection 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.