They ran, hand in hand, like two children, ducking under the low-swung branches of trees, skirting shrubs. When they burst into the kitchen, old Sam Kee, straightening up from the range where he was sliding a pan of biscuits into the oven, looked at them with such twinkling eyes that Hilda was sure he had already watched Pearse’s arrival. “You know who this is, don’t you, Sam?” she smiled. “Sure, I know,” the Chinaman grinned back at her. “Plitty nice boy you got. Fine young man, now.” “That was good coffee and chow you gave me,” Pearse offered diplomatically. “This dinner-time more good chow.” Sam Kee’s yellow face was a pucker of amiability. “You stay here, I feed you all time good chow.” “Well, that’s something to stay for,” Pearse said solemnly, and the Chinaman went off into long, silent chuckles. Hilda was already calling over her shoulder: “Come on, Pearse. If dinner is as near ready as all this, we’ve got to hurry.” With her leading, they crossed the big cellar and threaded the passage. But once in that little chamber of memories, how was either of them to remember that life presented any problems, that there might be breakers ahead? Pearse went from one thing to another admiring; Hilda had full reward for making the place so fine and festive. “Why—you’ve kept every one of them!” Pearse looked around at his gifts, proudly displayed. “Yes. I showed them to the folks. They were too lovely to keep entirely to myself; but after that I brought them down here.” “I’ll get you a better serape than this.” Pearse fingered the blanket on the couch. “I know where I can pick up a Hanno Chaddie—that means ‘chief’s blanket’—ever see one?” And he went on to tell her of the pattern. But it made no difference what either of them said, one thing lay under it all—Pearse had come back—as he said he would. He’d walked up the front steps this time; he’d met and made friends with Miss Valeria and Burch. Now there remained—Uncle Hank. After they’d talked a while, eagerly, of that former time of hiding here in the cyclone cellar, Pearse said suddenly: “Shall you tell Pearsall about having hidden me here, that time?” “I’ve already told him, Pearse. Was that wrong? Didn’t you want me to?” “Doesn’t make any difference. I suppose I’d have told him myself when I saw him. I suppose I shall see him to-morrow, shan’t I? He’s on the ranch, isn’t he?” “To-morrow? You’ll see him to-night, Pearse. At dinner—in a few minutes, now. He might come in any time.” She hurried over to the little window and stood nervously pushing the vine lattice aside so that she saw the spring, the stream, the little bridge that led across to the bunk house. And at the instant she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing and whirled, crying: “Pearse—there’s Uncle Hank, now! Come on.” “All right—tell you all about it on the way up,” Pearse said almost desperately, and while they hurried stumblingly, through the dark cellar, he talked in hasty, broken sentences.