"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."
"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"
"The lords?"
"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle- ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see-- me."
A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun.
"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."
Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell- tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but not unpleasing.
"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "A Golden Word from Mother. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's perfectly lovely--in moroccy."
"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I think he can read."
This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun-baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's over-alls and tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus. With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the foot of the corral.