There fell a curious silence after the colonel’s two words, only the movements of the ponies, Jinnie’s tired whimpering as she pulled at her mother’s hand, the creaking of saddle leather making itself heard. At last Marchbanks, looking Pearse up and down, observed dryly: “Funny Pearsall never mentioned you to me.” “I don’t think it’s funny.” Pearse’s reply seemed to cover a good deal. But what it covered was not for explanation here. “You don’t? Then you’re not a friend of his—only of Hilda’s? That it?” “That’s about it,” agreed Pearse coolly. Hilda clutched her bridle rein in fingers that shook, as she looked at the two men facing each other. “Pearsall is Hilda’s guardian,” Marchbanks said sharply; and once again it flitted across Hilda’s mind how, years ago, he had tried to oust Uncle Hank from that place. “I’m not. But till you have his permission you can’t visit her in my house.” “I had no intention of attempting to do so, Colonel Marchbanks,” Pearse returned steadily. “Good night, everybody.” He wheeled his pony. “Ride with me to the gate, Hilda,” and she found herself following him, the people they left at first letting them go silently and then seeming to begin to quarrel about it. “Pearse,” she cried, bringing her horse up beside his, “what a shameful way to treat you—after—They know well enough that Maybelle and I might have been killed if it hadn’t been for you.” “Never mind about me. I don’t care how they treat me.” He glanced carelessly back toward the group at the porch edge. “It’s you I’m thinking of.” “Well, I care!” Hilda’s voice shook with anger. “I feel as though I never wanted to see one of them again. I’d like to go straight home, if it wasn’t for—” “Better not do that,” said Pearse uncertainly. “Not right away, anyhow. But you and I are going to be friends, aren’t we, Hilda? Even if I have to go over to the Three Sorrows and eat humble pie.” “Oh—would you come?” cried Hilda breathlessly. “Of course I’ll come,” Pearse said. “But your Uncle Hank, as you call him, may treat me about as Marchbanks did just now. Had you ever thought of that?” “He wouldn’t. And if he did—” “Well, if he did—you’d have to choose between us—wouldn’t you, Hilda?” “I couldn’t—Uncle Hank—” The words came almost unconsciously. A moment to think and Hilda never would have said them. For the Pearse she’d known before to-day—before the night at the dance at Grainger’s—would, she was sure, at the sound of them have ridden away and left her. This Pearse didn’t. He held in his impatient pony, and they sat looking at each other, close. “That’s the way you choose between us, is it?” he asked. “I’m not choosing,” Hilda cried in distress. “I haven’t any choice. You don’t understand, Pearse. If it was my own father, I might. But Uncle Hank didn’t owe me anything—he wasn’t paying a debt he owed me—and he’s given everything. He’s got nobody but me. I couldn’t. Don’t ask it.”