bear a most minute scrutiny. Mrs. Pennycook knew that as a wife she was
approaching the unlovely age when fickle husbands tire and cast about
for younger and prettier women. Hence she decided to trim her mental
lamps and light the dastard Daniel out of temptation.

Her first move was a master-stroke of feminine genius. She issued an
order to her husband to buy no more hats of Donna Corblay.

Three loud cheers for Mr. Pennycook! He revolted. He did more. He
turned on Mrs. Pennycook--he shook a smutty finger under her nose. He
said something. He said he would see her, Mrs. Pennycook, further--in
fact, considerably further--than that! All of which was very rude and
vulgar of Mr. Pennycook, we must admit, but--

And now our stage is set at last; so assuming three years to have
passed, behold the curtain rising, discovering Donna Corblay behind the
cashier's counter in the railroad eating-house in the little desert
hamlet of San Pasqual.

It is a different Donna that confronts us now, and the first glimpse is
almost sufficient to cause us to view with a more complacent eye the
mental travail of any married lady whose husband might be exposed to
the battery of Donna's eyes.

Such wonderful eyes! Dark blue, wide apart, intelligent, tender, with a
trick of peeping up at one from under the long black lashes, and
conveying such a medley of profound emotions that it is small wonder
that men--and occasionally women--forgot their change in the excitement
of gazing upon this superior attraction.