Hilda, intensely aware of his presence, did not lift her eyes to look at him. She never knew what she ate, or if she ate at all. They walked back to the house after supper, Pearse and jolly, loud-voiced Mrs. Burkett somewhere over to the left of Hilda and Fayte in the semi-obscurity; and that cheek of Hilda’s, that shoulder and arm, seemed to her to glow and palpitate in great electric waves, as she answered Fayte at hasty, joyous random. In the house, the floor had been, as Big Martin somewhat discontentedly expressed it, “hoed off into pretty decent shape.” Presently came “the roundup,” the cowboy’s own cotillion, in which the couples are all in one great set, each pair going through every all-around figure. Pearse came and asked Hilda, and with a throb of joy touched with fear, she rose. Under cover of the round-up’s boisterous romping, and during the long waits, these two talked eagerly, swiftly. “You’re not going to ride home with that fellow, Hilda.” “I don’t want to, Pearse, but—” “You’re not going to—dear.” The final word was so low that Hilda didn’t actually hear it—she was only thrillingly certain that it was there. At the end of that dance, the Alamnositas party was leaving. Pearse must have known that. He went right along with Mrs. Marchbanks, gathering wraps and belongings, carrying Jinnie. Hilda saw, with a sinking heart, that her pony, saddled, stood near the buggy along with Fayte’s and Maybelle’s. There was Maybelle herself. Fayte was coming from the corral. Lefty Adams rode up. The buggy was double-seated, carrying four. Pearse pushed past Lefty Adams, tucked in robes and bundles, around the children, and reached a hand to help Hilda with: “Hilda’s going to ride home with you, Mrs. Marchbanks. She’s too tired for the pony. Lefty will lead it over. Good night.” “Well, I must say—” Mrs. Marchbanks unconsciously lifted the lines. The shivering impatient ponies sprang away at a lope. What Mrs. Marchbanks must say would have to be said on the way home, for her hands were now full looking after the team she was driving. And, oddly enough to Hilda, no further mention of the matter was made during the drive. Miss Ferguson saw nothing strange in the new arrangement. An eastern woman, it seemed to her natural enough that a girl who had raced to the Grainger ranch and danced as much as Hilda had, should need rest. It was in the hall at home, in front of her own bedroom door that Mrs. Marchbanks said, “Hilda, I’ll have to speak to the colonel in the morning about this. You know—or maybe you didn’t know?—that he doesn’t allow any of the J I C men on the ranch.” No need to answer that. Pearse hadn’t come on the ranch. He hadn’t offered to. But how splendidly he’d handled the situation. How Fayte gave ground before him. She went silently into her room and shut the door. CHAPTER XXVI AS MAYBELLE SAW IT