And so it was only Hilda who, drifting about the house or garden, lingering at the corral, like a little woebegone shadow, took no part in the joy. She followed Hank as though she could not let him from her sight, hastening to bring what he needed before he asked for it, stooping to pick up a thing he dropped, anticipating his wish with a low-spoken word. He was used to having Hilda hang about him—but not this Hilda. Also she was getting to be of a size and age when she very commonly had some more or less important concerns of her own which took her apologetically from him at intervals. Now, whatever he was doing, he knew she was there; he was aware of just the look he would meet in those dark eyes if he glanced up. If the old man wheeled suddenly and faced it, this haunter of his trail would turn aside hastily and at once be occupied with other business. But Hank knew that he was watched. The start was to be made in the morning. After supper Hilda sat down on the side-door stone, where so many of her interviews with Uncle Hank took place, waiting for him and trying hard not to weep. He came out noisily, man-fashion, calling back some last remark over his shoulder to Shorty O’Meara, and dropping suddenly beside her with a great sigh, mingled of weariness, relief, content. “Well, it was short notice, but we’re sure ready, and we’re ready good. Pettie,”—he spoke aloud and cheerfully—“I don’t know as I ever in my life looked forward to anything with more pleasure than I do to going down to El Capitan and bringing back them cows.” Slowly it was borne in upon him that he was getting no response. In the silence came a choking sound. There was no need of words. He sat awhile, mute. It’d occur to him that he might say, “_You_ don’t want to go—a little lady like you—on a long, hard, lonesome, messy trip with nobody but a lot of rough boys that can’t talk a lick of grammar.” But the uselessness of it, as well as the hollow insincerity, held him silent. The old man acted a mother’s part by his orphans, but he possessed none of the age-honored mothers’ tricks. Now he got up suddenly and went into the house, where Miss Valeria sat reading, and blurted out to that lady: “I reckon I’m the most forsaken old fool that ever trod shoe-leather. But I can’t stand it any longer. Pettie’ll have to go with me down the trail.” Following close behind, as she had been following all day, Hilda heard those last words. She dared not explode into a joyous whoop, for her aunt’s bewildered face promised resistance. Miss Van Brunt took off her delicate, gold-rimmed glasses nervously and rubbed her eyes, as though, perhaps, looked at without their medium, Hank might change his mind. “I—why, really, Mr. Pearsall,” she began, with her small bustle of feminine authority, “you are very kind to think of bothering yourself with the child. If it were Burch, now—but I’m afraid it’s rather a long trip for a little girl—and—”