Hilda stood there, chilled and shivering, and listened to the sound of his horse’s hoofs, cautious and slow at first, breaking into a canter further away and dying out in the night air. He was gone, leaving her utterly bereft. For, in the presence of the living Pearse himself The Boy-On-The-Train had at once shrunk and faded to a vain shadow—oh, no, she could never call that up again. She had lost them both.

She turned stumblingly toward the house. Halfway there, blinded by her tears, she walked almost into Uncle Hank!

“Pettie!” he said. “Why, Pettie—it’s you?”

With the strangest movement, a perfect anguish of reluctance, the child who flew to meet him whenever she saw him coming, who ran to him with all her troubles and perplexities, approached. The poor little feet lagged at every step. Plainly they would rather have turned and fled. The eyes beseeched, apologized. The trembling hands went out and made movements of dumb entreaty. For one instant he was confused by memory of her fear of the sheriff; then, like a knife in his heart, came the clear knowledge that she was afraid—of him! For some reason beyond his understanding, she did not want to come to him. Yet come she did, and the man, moved, as it seemed to him, beyond the occasion, gathered her up in his arms, just as he had been used to do when she was six years old and went to sleep on his breast. He carried her in to the living-room, sat down on the couch there and, loosening his arm a bit so that he might look in her face, said:

“Pettie, I was scared about you, honey. Don’t you want to tell Uncle Hank? Can’t Uncle Hank help you?”

Hilda was resolute not to cry. She straightened up in the circle of his arm and lifted to him brimming eyes.

“Uncle Hank,” she began desperately, “Father’s dead—he’s gone.”

“Yes. Why, yes, dear,” said Hank gravely. “He’s been gone five year. We have to get over it when our folks die and leave us. The world wouldn’t get on without we did.”

“I know. It isn’t— What I mean is that, now he’s gone, we’re all there is left of him. We’ve got to do what he would if he was here—isn’t that so?”

“That’s so.”

“Well—he always helped people that were in trouble, didn’t he?”

“He sure did, Pettie. Your pa was as good as gold. He was the dearest father a little girl ever had. What he done when he was here, and what he would do if he was here now, would always be right for you to pattern by.”

Hank was puzzled on some points, but very clear as to what he wanted Hilda to understand on this. He was glad to see that his words were a relief to her.

“Then” (she was feeling her way, plainly with some secret difficulty in explaining herself), “if somebody came to you or me in trouble—in very dreadful trouble—some one that had been trying to get to father—some one that depended on him—that didn’t know he was dead and couldn’t help him—”

The big, black eyes, so like Charley’s own, held steadfastly to Uncle Hank’s attentive glance; they never wavered, till he bent down and laid his cheek upon her curls.

“You needn’t say another word, Pettie—nary another word. You’ve got just as good a right to keep your affairs to yourself as I’ve got, or as any other man’s got. If I can help you—if you want anything from Uncle Hank—just tell me so. Let me know what it is.”

“It’s awful good of you, Uncle Hank,” said Hilda. She debated with herself a moment in silence, then took it with a brave rush. “You mustn’t ask me where the Sunday pony’s gone, nor papa’s saddle and bridle.”

Hank plainly was startled, but he got his breath and came back gallantly with:

“I won’t, honey. By the holy poker—this is your own business! I don’t see why it ain’t—just as much as if you was a man a hundred and thirteen years old, instead of a little girl only thirteen.”

Hilda had all along assured herself, almost feverishly, that Uncle Hank would understand; but now, climbing the stairs to bed, looking back over her shoulder to where he sat, the sense of his forbearance was like a pang in her heart. She’d done something she dared not tell Uncle Hank. She’d deceived him. And she had done it for a boy who didn’t like Uncle Hank—who, for some strange, unaccountable reason seemed almost to hate him! Well, that had to be. But now she would make up to him for it. Never again—not on any other subject, anyhow—would she keep anything back from him. But Pearse—she knew if Pearse needed it she would again deceive the old man. It was very strange and puzzling; it hurt her.

She fell asleep, finally, then waked to the startling thought—that she’d put Uncle Hank second. He’d always been first. Well—she couldn’t help that, either.