“Anybody seen that left glove of mine?” he asked, when he finally pushed back from the table. “I had it in here to mend, and I reckon Sam Kee must a-put it away for me where I can’t find it. Run ask him, Pettie.” Hilda ran. As she came ostentatiously hobbling back, the glove in her hand, Hank failed to take it. Thank goodness, at last he was looking at her feet. “What you got on, child?” “Shoes—like you told me to,” said Hilda, sadly. “Or slippers, rather.” “Slippers?” He eyed with disfavor the shabby glories of Miss Valeria’s cast-off footwear, the toothpick toes, the preposterous heels. “Slippers, heh? Well, you just go and pull ’em off—and don’t you ever put ’em on again.” “Oh, may I, Uncle Hank? I wanted to ask you if I could—in the house. But I thought after I promised—” She was half way to the door when he called after her: “You take them things off and put some sensible shoes on.” She turned, and said in a weak voice: “These are all I’ve got, Uncle Hank.” “All you’ve got?” He picked her up and carried her to the lamplight as though she’d been a doll, examining the footgear. “Who in time would buy shoes like that for a child?” “They weren’t bought for me,” Hilda had to admit. “They’re some old ones of Aunt Val’s.” “Why don’t you wear your own?” “My own are all worn out—and—and I can’t get my foot in any of them.” For a minute Hilda thought Uncle Hank was very angry at her. “Gimme them things off your feet,” he said, and set her down. She handed the slippers to him. He took them, walked out through the kitchen calling to Sam Kee to bring a light. At the chopping block in the side yard, with the Chinaman holding his lamp high in the door, Hilda peering under an elbow, Hank caught up an ax and chopped off the French heels. “There,” he grunted, pounding down nails, looking the slippers over before he brought them to her, “put ’em on, honey—they’ll do till to-morrow.” Then he raised his voice in a shout and called across to the bunk house: “Hi—some of you boys! Shorty, that you? Tell Thomps to take charge up at the big pasture in the morning. I’ll not be there. I’m going to Mesquite.” When he came back into the room with Hilda, he asked: “Didn’t Auntie get you any shoes when she ordered all them things from New York?” “No. She just got clothes for Burchie—to go to Fort Worth, you know. I guess she got him shoes. Mine weren’t so bad then.” She sat down and thrust out her feet to put the reformed slippers on. The old man stared at those feet and frowned. “Are those your best stockings, Pettie?” “Well, these are a pair of my every-day ones,” Hilda said slowly. “You put on your best ones, then.” “But the best ones are a lot worser—about having holes in the feet, if that’s what you mean, Uncle Hank. I keep them for best because they’ve got the holes mostly where they don’t show.” The old man held out a hand for the stockings which she pulled off and gave to him. He stood with one drawn over his big fist, shaking his head.