“You’re a good friend, Hilda, and the pony was everything to me—got me over to New Mexico in short order. I’m sure my coming in well mounted helped me with those folks I was going to see about my job and all. Sunday and I are mighty good pals—and I thought of you every time I looked at him—and that was every day.” “Every day—and Sunday,” Hilda laughed softly in sheer happiness. “If you were thinking about me so much—I think you might have written. You said you would. Why didn’t you?” “Oh, well, I’d start to,” Pearse said, rather reluctantly, “and then I’d get to thinking what if any one should get hold of my letter—open it, maybe—” “Why, Pearse,” Hilda broke in, “Uncle Hank wouldn’t open a letter addressed to me—and he’s the only one that could—if that’s what you mean.” “All right,” Pearse nodded. “If you think it’s safe, I’ll write. But I didn’t want him to get the idea that I’d been hanging around the ranch where he was manager, begging favors.” “You didn’t ask favors!” Hilda burst out. “You didn’t hang around. Don’t be so—” “I don’t know what you call it.” But he was laughing now. “I begged you into hiding me. I hung around the ranch five days. And you certainly did pile the favors on me, Hilda. You were as good as gold. I’ll never forget you for it. Anyhow, you and I are good friends, and always will be, whether we write to each other or see each other, or not. Isn’t that so?” Hilda nodded. Pearse looked at her a little anxiously. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you this time,” he said hastily, “but I wanted you to know how grateful I am. There’s a little bundle tied to the saddle horn. Something for you. Not what I’d like to give you, but the best I could get hold of on short notice.” “For me? Oh, that was awfully nice of you!” Then she groped for some one thing of all she had so long wanted to say—to ask—and faltered: “Where are you living now? At that place in New Mexico where you got the job? Are—are you all right?” “Still there. Doing well, thank you, Hilda. Got three raises the first year. And I’ve heard from George and Nelly’s husband. I’m to have the share in the J I C that father promised me. Oh—and, Hilda, I ran into some people over in New Mexico that know you. Name’s Marchbanks.” “Oh, yes. Maybelle and Fayte Marchbanks—their father’s Colonel Lee Marchbanks.” “Those are the folks. Their ranch, the Alamositas, is next biggest after the J I C—the ranch I’m with—in Encinal County. I’ve never been to headquarters on the Alamositas, but I understand it’s a fine place. Say, Hilda”—a moment of listening—“I’ve got to get out of here.” She held to his sleeve, and couldn’t utter a word. He hesitated, embarrassed. “I will write to you, then, if you—if you think it’s all right. Look out for my letters. Don’t let any one else get hold of them.” “Will you, Pearse—will you? I’ll watch for the letters. Nobody shall see them—and—oh, Pearse—must you go?”