She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t look back. But, after the first, she went very slowly. Any one who’d wanted to could have overtaken her in a minute. Almost walking her pony that way made her late. Supper was over. She went in, head down, moving with dragging steps. She felt beaten and bruised; sunburned till she was almost in a fever. To these things she was more or less accustomed; a night of sound sleep would put them right; but the wounds of that interview with Pearse were new and terrifying; the sting of chagrin that it had left upon the face of her spirit was intolerable. That parting cut she had aimed at him was, by some cruel magic, cleaving her own heart now. It ached and bled. How could she ever bear it? She washed up, stumbled into Sam Kee’s kitchen and sat down at his little table to eat the supper he had saved for her. The old Chinaman turned from the stove, where he was stirring something, intending to give her one of his grumbling scoldings. When he saw how worsted she looked, how she sipped at her coffee and ate almost nothing, he went instead and fetched a little dish of lemon jelly from the pantry, saying, more in sympathy than reproach: “Sam Kee tell you blue horse debbil. Tell you he kill you.” “I had to ride him,” murmured Hilda absently. Oh, it hurt dreadfully to be angry at Pearse—to feel bitter toward him. If she had a chance to talk with him now—only for a minute—only a minute—she would put her pride in her pocket and make it all right at any cost. She shoved the lemon jelly away; then, catching Sam Kee’s crestfallen look, drew it back and ate a little of it. “That’s all, Sam,” she said, trying to smile. “Can’t eat any more now. Too tired. Go to bed now.” But as she was on her way to the stair’s foot, Hank’s voice called to her from the office: “Come in here a minute, Pettie—I’ve got something to tell you that won’t keep till morning.” She went in and sat down on the low stool near his chair, leaning over against his arm. Every line of her slim figure drooped; the arms hung listlessly at her sides. “Pettie!” he said, in quick alarm. “Anything the matter, honey?” “Oh, I stayed out too long. I’m perfectly dog tired. That’s all.” “Umm-humm,” agreed the old man gently, “I should think you would be. When I went to the corral this evening I seen what horse it was you rode to _Tres Piños_.” Eyes down, Hilda waited for the reproof. She was at that dead ebb, physical, mental, emotional, that could expect nothing but blame, defeat. “Mose was the only one that could get there,” she said, lifelessly, offering it as a statement, not a defense. “Why, I’m not mad at you about it, honey.” The old man’s voice was soft. “I’m proud of you. You asked for the horse in the first place—he’s your’n now.” A little tingle of delight stirred the flat level of Hilda’s depression.