“You—you said when I saw you on the trail, that time you brought Sunday back, that you knew Maybelle Marchbanks.” Hilda was, unconsciously, trying to bring some more personal interest into the talk. “I used to know her over here in Lame Jones County.” “Yes.” “Do you like her?” “Oh,” negligently, “I hardly know her enough to say. There’s mighty little doing between our ranch and the Marchbanks place.” “Is she very pretty?” Hilda asked the girl’s question, and reddened as Pearse answered, with a smile: “You can tell whether she’s pretty or not by Fayte’s looks—they’re a good deal alike.” Hilda thought Maybelle might be very good-looking, indeed, but some instinct kept her from saying so. “Are there other young folks over where you’re living now?” She put it rather wistfully. “Yes, plenty of them,” returned Pearse, and somehow Hilda felt chilled. “Who?” “Oh, most of the ranches have young folks on them. Our manager has a niece visiting him just now, from Galveston. She plays the piano beautifully.” Hilda—tired, bedraggled, a truant at the music lessons—suddenly hated that girl from Galveston—and was ashamed of herself for the hatred—and couldn’t be content till she had more details for that hatred to feed on. “Is she pretty?” “Our manager’s niece? Yes. Very.” “Does she know Fayte Marchbanks?” “Why, yes—I suppose she does.” “Does she like him?” “Why, Hilda—what possesses my little pal? Miss Esmond is a young lady—you understand—a grown young lady. Fayte Marchbanks has called on her once or twice since she’s been at the ranch. I think she knew him in Galveston. He speaks good Spanish, she’s traveled a whole lot in Old Mexico and likes to talk to some one who speaks the language well. That’s all there is to it. Most of the nice girls out our way—young ladies, I mean, of course—keep Fayte Marchbanks at a distance, I think.” They all knew each other; they spoke languages fluently; they had unforbidden companionship with Pearse, and he with them. She was an exile from it all. “I never get to go anywhere or see anybody,” said Hilda, gathering up her reins as though to start her pony ahead faster. “I haven’t got any friends of my own age.” “You haven’t?” groped Pearse, taken aback—“I thought you told me about youngsters on the Capadine ranch that you played with.” There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence after that “youngsters,” a silence in which Hilda was conscious mostly of a tired, aching body and smarting cheeks. Then she spoke again, in a small choked voice: “I must be getting home.” “I’ll ride as far as I dare with you,” said Pearse, alert, concerned, but all in the dark. “I wish we could have had more of a visit together.” “Oh!” Hilda turned on him tear-blinded, angry eyes, “you needn’t bother to come any further. I can just play with youngsters, I suppose!” She lifted the rein and was off at a gallop, and she never looked back to see how he took that blow.