The little girl in the pink apron again used it as a handkerchief as Mary rode down the trail.
“I—I’d go to school all my life—with her!” she said loyally.
The school-teacher halted at the residence of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, second trustee. He it was who was to sign the check for her services, give to her the very first money she had ever earned. He was waiting for her, the check in his hand.
“I—I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Jarvis,” said Mary, “especially since you’re strong on figures in Bear Canyon, that I haven’t taught many this week. I’m afraid I’m very weak on system. That will be one of the things I’ll have to learn in college, I guess. The days have gone so fast I just haven’t seemed to have time to get them in. And—and to tell the truth, Mr. Jarvis, I’m not very strong on figures myself.” 215
“Figures!” said Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as he shook hands with her. “I guess you’ve given that boy o’ mine somethin’ better’n figures, God bless you!”
The boy himself came around the house just as Mary was mounting her horse to ride away. He had left school before the others, and had said no good-by. Now he came up to her, a brown paper parcel in his hand.
“It’s a rattlesnake skin I fixed for you,” he said shyly. “You said you liked ’em once. And the heavy thing in the end’s my jack-knife. I carved your letters on the handle. I thought it might come in handy when you went to college.”