“What in time’s the matter?” the old man asked. Clarke Capadine had stood his ground, but Fayte Marchbanks was running. Hank caught sight of the gun in his hand. “Is the child shot?” “My doll! My doll!” Hilda’s voice had come down to a moan. “I hadn’t but just one, and—” Maybelle’s finger was in her mouth. She took it out to point to the little sprinkling of white scraps. “Hilda—are you hurt?” That was her father. “Put her down, Pearsall. See if she’s injured.” Uncle Hank set her on her feet. The gust of passion had gone by. She was weak from it—and terribly ashamed. “He broke her doll,” the old man explained. Hilda loved him for the serious tone. Maybelle giggled. Hilda heard another laugh somewhere, but it wasn’t Mr. Capadine, for he said: “That boy ought to be thrashed.” She turned and buried her face against Uncle Hank, sobbing now, but very quietly. “Hilda—don’t be silly,” came Miss Val’s impatient voice. “Go get another doll to play with. See—you’re spoiling all the good time for your little visitors.” “I—hadn’t—but just one,” it came very muffled from the folds of Uncle Hank’s coat. Her father said quickly, “Oh, that’s so. But, Hilda, I’m going to buy you more dolls. Be a good girl now. Stop crying.” “I don’t want but just one, papa.” Hilda choked, raised her head and tried to straighten her face. “When—when will you get me my doll?” They were all looking at her. It was a terrible moment. Yet Hilda somewhat forgot it in the importance of that question. “The very next time I go to town,” said her father. “The handsomest one I can find, dear. Now go on with your play—and don’t let’s have any more hysterics.” He went back to the house. Clarke Capadine had slipped away in the direction Fayte took. Uncle Hank stayed a few minutes, till he saw that Hilda seemed to be herself again, then he mounted and rode away to his work. But that evening, when Hilda came at bedtime to bid him good night, she looked so woebegone, and her feet dragged so that he inquired: “Not afraid to go upstairs alone, air you, Pettie? Been seeing any of them Skulkin’ Door-imps lately?” She shook her head. “No—not much. That isn’t it. Never mind.” “Or Barrel-tops?” Hank pursued cheerily. “You let me know if any of them come around—and I’ll stave ’em in for you.” “The—the doll.” She got out the two words, and could manage no more, but let them lie as they fell. “Sure enough!” The old man caught her up in his arms and started for the stairs. “That doll-baby’s still on your mind, ain’t it? I know. Uncle Hank’ll carry you up to bed.” And on the way he whispered, “Never you mind, Pettie; there’s got to be a trip to Forth Worth right soon—Forth Worth—a real big city; and I’ll make sure your doll-baby comes back from there.” CHAPTER IV THE DOLL