We had worked a small town a half day’s drive east of Sydney, where pressing business awaited Mr. Adams’ immediate attention. Dan had a number of sign orders to fill and Mrs. Adams some culinary duties to perform, so it came about that Mr. Adams and I drove ahead with the buckboard, leaving the others to finish their tasks and follow.

We rose early and began our journey as the rose and opal tints of dawn were disappearing in the mounting flood of sunlight. The air was cool and bracing and the horses cavorted with delight as we spun past the scattering outposts of the village and took the white, winding road across the western plain.

Mr. Adams set me down at the edge of town and headed for the express and telegraph office, while I prepared for peddling. He was out of sight before I realised that we had not touched the lunch that was in the buckboard, although it was after one o’clock. I hadn’t a cent with me, for I had put all the money available into an order for special goods, which Mr. Adams was going to send east. Making change might prove awkward at first, but I could only do my best. I selected the most prosperous street and set resolutely to work.

At the first three houses the inmates refused to open the door, although I could see them peering at me from within.

“Nothing to-day,” exclaimed the fourth housewife before I could open my mouth.

I was growing very thirsty and as I walked up a flower-bordered path to a vine-covered veranda, I decided to ask for a drink of water without mentioning my wares. A sharp-nosed woman answered my ring.

“Please, madam, could I trouble you for a drink of water?” I asked.

“You can’t play any of your tricks on me,” she replied spitefully, slamming the door in my face.

As I walked slowly through the yard, I saw a pleasant-faced young Swedish girl at work on the back porch of the large house next door.

“She’ll surely give me a drink,” I said to myself. She greeted me with a smile as I made known my wants and in a moment I was quenching the thirst which had grown unendurable. As I set down the glass she noted my sample case.

“You bane sell someting?” she enquired with a wide smile.

With eager hands she fell upon the toilet articles as I opened the case.

“Yaw, yaw,” she cried. “I bane want someting long, long tam. Youst wait. I got money.”

She disappeared into the house.

I was laying out her selections when a harsh voice startled me.

“How dare you sneak into my home and take up the time of my maids? Leave this house instantly.”

I whirled around, too amazed to speak. A large, pompous woman was standing in the inner doorway, motioning me out with a be-ringed hand.

“But—but madam,” I stammered, “your maid wants to buy some of these articles. She has gone to get the money.”

“I’ll not have you cheating my servants. Go away from here.”

The girl appeared at that moment, but her mistress blocked the door.

“Hulda, you stay right where you are. Shame on you, wasting valuable time on a tricky pedler. What do you suppose I pay you wages for?”

“Oh, mam. I ban long tam want....”

“That will do. That will do. I don’t want any of your saucy talk. You are paid to do the housework, so get at it.” She turned on me.

“Get off these premises at once. You may be able to swindle these ignorant foreigners, but you can’t impose on me. Go now, or I’ll call the constable. The very idea, crowding yourself right into people’s homes, talking to their servants, impudent....”

She was still raving as I passed out of hearing. The day was very warm. I was dusty and tired and hungry. Aimlessly I followed the street till it terminated in a country road and finally sank down by the roadside, too weary and disheartened to think clearly.

I was roused by the sound of pattering hoofs and glancing up, saw a team of grey Indian ponies, attached to a light buckboard, come scampering around a curve. They shied sharply at sight of my recumbent figure, reared and tried to break into a run. Their driver drew them in with masterly skill, and circling through the weeds and brush, returned to learn the cause of the fracas. She was a tall, strong woman, with an aquiline nose and iron grey hair. The smile with which she greeted me as I approached the wagon was very winning.

“Is there something the matter? Are you ill or hurt?” she inquired, leaning toward me with kindling eyes.

“No, just tired and a bit blue, I guess. It didn’t seem worth while to walk any more, so I dropped right down here.”

“Pardon me, but aren’t you a stranger to these parts? I don’t recall seeing you before. In these little towns we generally know every one, at least by sight.”

“Yes, I arrived only a couple of hours ago, but I know this town pretty well already.”

She searched my face as though seeking the true meaning of my words; then her eyes fell on my sample case, which was still clutched in my left hand.

“Oh, you are selling something,” she exclaimed. “What is it, books?”

“No, not books. And I’m not selling anything either—not in this town.”

“Oh, so that’s it. You must have started on the wrong street. Suppose you jump in with me and ride out to the house. Maybe it will change your luck.”

I hesitated for a moment, my usual faith in human nature somewhat shaken by recent experiences.

“Come on, now. Jump in. I’ll bring you back to wherever you want to go, whenever you are ready.”

I walked around the wagon and clambered in. The ponies bounded forward, and away we flew, winding up among low, rolling hills, until we came to a small house perched on the side of a knoll. Care of the team had occupied my companion’s attention to the exclusion of conversation until we had entered the house. Then, as she set out a substantial lunch—afternoon tea, she termed it—we began to get acquainted.

Mrs. Holiday’s home was in Cheyenne, but her husband owned this large stock ranch, which led them to make frequent visits to Sydney.

As evening approached, she declared her intention of driving into town after Dan and keeping the two of us as long as our business permitted us to remain in the neighbourhood. Leaving me to devour a tableful of newspapers and late magazines, the first I had seen in months, she sped away with her frisky team and returned with Dan, who had grown quite accustomed to my peculiar way of making myself at home in unusual places. As they drove into the yard, Mr. Holiday rode in from the range and we all were soon on a most friendly footing.

Mr. Adams had already left a couple of sign orders with Dan to put up the next morning, but instead of going into town with him to resume my interrupted labours as a pedler, I decided to take a day off to wash and mend our clothing and incidentally starch my crumpled courage by an interchange of confidences with my hostess, who possessed a peculiarly invigorating temperament.

Her early years had been full of privations and severe struggles to gain an education. She had become a high school teacher, but her health failed, forcing her to seek the high altitudes of the Rockies. Here she had met and married Mr. Holiday, a well-to-do cattle man, and they had built a home in Cheyenne. One child—a girl—was born to them, but she had died some two years previously. Since her death the mother had been almost mad with loneliness, finding her chief consolation in mothering the calves and colts and other young creatures of the range.

She was greatly interested in the history of our experiences, and as I was telling her the story of Mandy of the corn fields, she suddenly leaned forward with sparkling eyes.

“Give me the address of that Mrs. Cummings. I’m going back there and if she is half the gritty little heroine that you make her out to be, I’ll bring her home with me and see that she gets the best education that money can buy. Maybe I’ll take one or two of the other children, too.”

“But... but maybe their mother will object,” I faltered.

“It won’t do her a bit of good if she does,” Mrs. Holiday replied firmly. “I always get what I go after. You know, when I saw you beside the road yesterday, I felt impelled to take you home with me. I believe in that kind of instinct—intuition—fate—call it what you will. That little Mandy will be my girl. I can teach her so much. It will be like renewing my youth. Of course, she’ll go to school in Cheyenne, too, and later to college if she likes. Oh, I’ll get her—rest assured of that. It’s mostly a question of money, anyway.”

I handed over the address without another word. Yes, it would be largely a question of money with that drunken father and ignorant mother, and it would be a wonderful opportunity for Mandy.

The workings of fate are marvellous to contemplate. If that old harridan of a woman had not ordered me from her house, I would not have wandered out into the country and met Mrs. Holiday. Then Mandy would not have had her chance. Thus, the harridan woman is clearly seen to be but an instrument of a benign Providence. Should she be censured for an act that results in so much good? I put the question to my companion, who laughed as I told her the story.

“You were unfortunate in that you began operations in the fashionable quarter of our fair city. I know the woman you describe. She is the shining light of local clubdom, the greatest society leader here. She would be highly insulted at the idea of serving as an instrument of Fate. Why, she would not be the servant of the Almighty himself—if she can’t boss the job, she won’t play.”

“It must be rather hard on the maid,” I observed.

“Well, she’s notorious for the way she handles her servants. She gets these green foreigners fresh from the old country, and keeps them penned in her kitchen so long as they will endure it. They are taught to cook and wash and all that, but she pays next to nothing, and does her best to prevent their learning decent English or mingling with their kind. She is a fine person to talk of swindling ignorant foreigners. A worse exploiter of unfortunate servant girls it would be difficult to find.

“But to-morrow I’ll take you into another part of town, over where the human people live, and probably you will do quite well.”

She was a good prophet, for I have succeeded in clearing nearly five dollars during the last few days. It will be with keen regret that I leave my newfound friend to-morrow morning and take the road again with the California outfit.