Tish had a sombrero on the side of her head, and was resting herself in the saddle by having her right leg thrown negligently over the horse’s neck.  With the left foot she was kicking our pack-horse, a creature so scarred with brands that Tish had named her Jane, after a cousin of hers who had had so many operations that Tish says she is now entirely unfurnished.

Mr. Ostermaier’s face was terrible, and only two days ago Mrs. Ostermaier came over to ask about putting an extra width in the skirt to her last winter’s suit.  But it is my belief that she came to save Tish’s soul, and nothing else.

“I’m so glad wide skirts have come in,” she said.  “They’re so modest, aren’t they, Miss Tish?”

“Not in a wind,” Tish said, eying her coldly.

“I do think, dear Miss Tish,” she went on with her eyes down, “that to—­to go about in riding-breeches before a young man is—­well, it is hardly discreet, is it?”

I saw Tish glancing about the room.  She was pretty angry, and I knew perfectly well what she wanted.  I put my knitting-bag over Charlie Sands’s tobacco-pouch.

Tish had learned to roll cigarettes out in Glacier Park.  Not that she smoked them, of course, but she said she might as well know how.  There was no knowing when it would come in handy.  And when she wishes to calm herself she reaches instinctively for what Bill used to call, strangely, “the makings.”

“If,” she said, her eye still roving,—­“if it was any treat to a twenty-four-year-old cowpuncher to see three elderly women in riding-breeches, Mrs. Ostermaier,—­and it’s kind of you to think so,—­why, I’m not selfish.”

Mrs. Ostermaier’s face was terrible.  She gathered up her skirt and rose.  “I shall not tell Mr. Ostermaier what you have just said,” she observed with her mouth set hard.  “We owe you a great deal, especially the return of my earrings.  But I must request, Miss Tish, that you do not voice such sentiments in the Sunday school.”

Tish watched her out.  Then she sat down and rolled eleven cigarettes for Charlie Sands, one after the other.  At last she spoke.

“I’m not sure,” she said tartly, “that if I had it to do over again I’d do it.  That woman’s not a Christian.  I was thinking,” she went on, “of giving them a part of the reward to go to Asbury Park with.  But she’d have to wear blinders on the bathing-beach, so I’ll not do it.”

However, I am ahead of my recital.

For a few days Tish said nothing more, but one Sunday morning, walking home from church, she turned to me suddenly and said:—­

“Lizzie, you’re fat.”

“I’m as the Lord made me,” I replied with some spirit.

“Fiddlesticks!” said Tish.  “You’re as your own sloth and overindulgence has made you.  Don’t blame the Good Man for it.”

Now, I am a peaceful woman, and Tish is as my own sister, and indeed even more so.  But I was roused to anger by her speech.