Mrs. Marchbanks, sitting beside Pearsall at the far end of the gallery, looked on approvingly. She seemed to expect equal pride and approval from the old man. “Hilda’s a regular heart breaker, Mr. Pearsall,” she sighed. “M-m,” grunted Uncle Hank, rather crusty, “I don’t know as I have much use for the heart-breaking business. I don’t want to see her’n broke.” “Oh—Hilda’s heart is in no danger!” Mrs. Marchbanks laughed a little. “Look over there. Safety in numbers, Mr. Pearsall. You won’t have to be uneasy about Hilda’s heart till some one of them cuts all the others out.” “I reckon you’re right.” Uncle Hank looked and smiled in spite of himself. Three young fellows and Hilda were disputing over the possibility of dancing in the court there, if two of the others, who looked sulkily on, would oblige with guitar and harmonica. His girl was all right, her eyes shining, her gay words flying, as the men quarreled heartily over who should have the first waltz with her when one of these reluctant idiots could be got to play a waltz. To Hank’s fond eyes she looked so very much alive in a world where so many are but half living—only going through the motions by a sort of formula—no wonder she was dangerously fascinating. “And when _my_ boy gets home,” Mrs. Marchbanks was going on beside him, “there’ll be another. Fayte will be _frantic_ about Hilda.” Hank was only stopping one day. Riding over to the station in the morning he had a final talk with Hilda, which seemed on the whole quite satisfactory, though again it gave him cause to smile. “Of course, Uncle Hank,” she said demurely, “I understand that you didn’t mean for me to sit about on the porch with young men and play grown-up, the way I’m doing here. I didn’t really intend to, myself, but somehow it—it just seems to happen.” She tilted her head on one side and looked across at the old man out of the corners of such liquid eyes, the up-curled lips were such threads of scarlet, as inquired of him how affairs of the heart were to be kept away from even a child of this mettle. “I expect you do all right, Pettie. I haven’t a doubt that you never say a word you wouldn’t be willing for your Uncle Hank to hear,” he suggested, a bit slyly. Hilda caught her breath. Then she glanced up swiftly and surprised a twinkle in his eyes. “You know I don’t—or—or do!” in some confusion. “I get as silly as the rest of them. Foolishness is all you can talk—it’s all they want to hear. But, Uncle Hank,” thrusting her pony in beside his to grasp his hand, enforcing her argument by small tugs on it, “it’s lots of fun. I’m going to tell you something dreadful about myself. There were two of them that used to come here a great deal, and they were awfully good friends. Now they hardly speak to each other, and”—the voice dropping to an exultant, half-terrified whisper—“I did it.” “Hilda—you little skeezicks!”