“All right, Uncle Hank.” Burch, piling valises into the buckboard, grinned across at the old man strapping on the trunk. “Of course you’d stick up for Hilda, whatever she did. You always do. All I’ve got to say is that it takes something more than a quitter to get ready for college. Bet I beat her yet.” “I guess you will, Buddie.” Hilda’s foot was on the step. “I never said I was going to college, anyhow. Uncle Hank and I are going to be partners and run the ranch; you know that.” Burch stared up at her, absently chucking a bag to see if it was firm. “Aw, that was the talk when we had to save money. We don’t, now. Hilda,” with a sharper look at her, “I believe you are sick. You look like it, anyhow.” “Ride on ahead, son,” Hank said gently. “Tell Auntie we met the girl, and it’s all right. You and her can talk out this college business when we get home. This child has had a hard trip. No wonder she looks sorta peaked; traveling on the railroad is mean work, if you ask me.” “But it’s lovely to have our own station, right here on our own land,” Hilda put in nervously. “It’s ever so exciting.” “Ye-es,” drawled Burch, grinning again as he heaved himself into the saddle and held his pony for a moment close beside them. “I noticed how excited you were when you first came—just like some one walking in their sleep.” He loosened the rein and galloped ahead. There was a trying moment just after he was gone. Uncle Hank wouldn’t demand anything of her—he never did. That was what made it so hard. She must begin. She couldn’t begin. As though he felt her trouble, he said in a low tone, “I wasn’t aiming to ask any questions, Pettie.” The hurt in his voice pierced her. “I can wait for you to say your say.” “Oh, can you, Uncle Hank?” Her voice was husky. “Would you do that? I think—or anyhow I hope—that he’ll be over here at the Three Sorrows—well—soon. If you could wait until then—” “I’ll wait.” The old man’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, on the empty plain. “That telegraft of Lee Marchbanks’s sorta made me think there might be a young man coming over here to see me pretty soon.” “Did it? Did they say it was—Pearse Masters?” Hank glanced up at her with a brief nod. “That’s the name,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll show it to you,” and he began searching through his pockets. “Long as it wasn’t that feller Fayte Marchbanks,” he muttered half to himself, “I felt I had something left to be thankful for. What’s that name again, Pettie? Masters?” “Pearse Masters.” Hilda, studying his face, saw that apparently he had never heard the name before. It meant nothing to him. But Pearse knew Uncle Hank by name; seemed to have known him—or known of him—a long time. Oh, why couldn’t she have had a chance to be told about that before she came home! The telegram was being smoothed out on her knee. She glanced down at it.