“Can’t? Why, we’ve got everything to do it with, Charley. I’ve gentled this sewing-machine; here’s white domestic, and cotton to stuff with, and all the need-cessary materials. As for a pattern, why, you’ve got me to go by, and I’ve got you, in the mere number and placing on of arms and legs and such.” He glanced at the object in Van Brunt’s hands. “I reckon you went mostly by me—in the—the—geography of that critter. Gosh! Charley, it’s a plumb straddle-bug, and whopper-jawed at that! Now—here”—the sentences came out in sections, irregular fragments, through many pins and needles and other implements which Hank held in his mouth—“here—I have went by you. We’ve got to cut ’em tolerable fat, or they stuff too slim; I see that. That’n”—he chuckled softly—“that lean lizard’s a Pearsall—and a Pearsall I don’t want to acknowledge. But this is a pretty fair Van Brunt. She’s most ready for clothes now.” “I’ll bring some of my things,” Van Brunt suggested, turning toward the door to his own room. Hank looked dubious. “It’s lady fixin’s—flub-dubs—we want—fancy ke-didoes, ye know. Course, we can’t wake up Miss Valeria to get ’em—but I don’t suppose a man’s riggin’s would—” “A man’s riggin’s!” echoed Van Brunt, laughing under his breath. “You don’t know much, Hank. Just wait a minute!” and he was gone. Hilda’s already overburdened heart sank at the thought of the morrow. That she should fail to offer some sort of gratitude for these well-meant efforts on her behalf never occurred to her. The awful gulf which yawns between a child’s point of view and that of the grown-up gaped black at the seven-year-old’s feet; yet she was loyally resolved to bridge it, when the time came, with such show of enthusiasm as she could muster. Her father had gone through the further door. Uncle Hank had quit the motion of his elbow that she knew meant stuffing, and was threading a needle. He spoke softly to himself; he had a way of doing that; Hilda loved it. “H’m—promises! Pettie got promised every time he went to Mesquite that she’d be brung such a doll as could be got there. It was forgot. It’s been forgot this time. Any feller that promises her any more dolls from anywheres is bound to look to her like somebody that promises to brings dolls—and then forgets.” Poor Charley Van Brunt! The old man had another listener. He had come back, his hands full of stuff he was bringing to dress the doll, and he stopped in the door. “You’re right, Pearsall,” he said soberly and Hilda didn’t understand till she was older that queer thing he said afterward. “I’ve all my life been promising to bring home dolls to the people I love and who love me and depend on me—and forgetting. You know what I mean. If it wasn’t dolls of some sort, then it would be dolls of another—repentance, reformation, amendment—all dressed up and shining. But I’ve always brought the valise home empty, haven’t I?”