Questions and answers usually alternated. The day’s happenings were tallied over. By one and by the other, possibilities were submitted and gravely passed upon, information volunteered, incidents recounted seriously, yet in tolerant and hopeful spirit, the tousled black head leaning against the blue flannel shirt. Hilda was the putter of questions. Uncle Hank the answerer, the source of all wisdom. This evening she was scarcely up and settled before she began: “Uncle Hank, when papa died, did Fayte Marchbanks’ papa want to be our guardian—Burchie’s and mine?” She leaned her head back against the blue flannel shirt and tried to look at Uncle Hank over her forehead. His beard was a good deal in the way. She couldn’t see much. “Now who in time would ’a’ told you anything about that?” He was out of patience—though not with her. It encouraged her to proceed. “But he did?” “I reckon he did, Pettie.” “But he can’t—he can’t ever—could he, Uncle Hank?” “No!” Hilda loved Uncle Hank’s voice when it was full and grave like that; it was so satisfying; it settled things; it gave her little thrills all down her spine. He went on. “Your pa left you to me—in a manner of speaking. Plenty witnesses. I—” “Oh, Uncle Hank, I’m a witness,” a quick rush of tears in the black eyes. “I heard him say it, Uncle Hank. I heard you promise. It made me—” No use to begin that—she never could tell the old man how it made her feel toward him. So she finished softly, “I’m a witness.” “So you would be,” Hank agreed. “But there was no need to call on you for that, Pettie. I did name it to Miss Valery when she come to me speaking of Lee Marchbanks having applied; I told her same as I told the judge when I took out my papers. It’s nothing for a child like you to pester her little head about.” But the mention of Aunt Val brought back all Hilda’s bitterness. “Well, I think it was mean for a man to want to do that—want to be our guardian, I mean—when you’re it,” she said. “Sho! I wouldn’t talk that-away about some one you never seen—nor me either, for that matter. It chances I’ve never laid eyes on Colonel Lee Marchbanks; but from what I hear, he’s all right.” “Well, he’s Fayte Marchbanks’ papa, and I don’t like Fayte a bit. Fayte said the Three Sorrows ranch belonged to him—if he had his rights. Is that the reason his papa wanted to be our guardian?” “Now see here, don’t you fix up a story and fit it onto the other feller without by-your-leave. That ain’t fair. I expect Lee Marchbanks does wish his first wife’s father hadn’t sold the Sorrers out of the family, but too much thinkin’ about what the other feller’s thinkin’ has made a lot of trouble in this world before now. Let it go at what he _done_. And he done no more than to ask appointment as guardeen—and I guess he had your Aunt Val’s permission for that. You couldn’t understand the ins and outs of it now.”