As time went on, and there was no Pearse and no word from him, and here was Uncle Hank, more than ever part of everything good and comfortable, Hilda slipped into a position of even greater confidence with him. It was as though she tried to make up to him for having liked—for still so very much liking—a person who thought badly of him. Those long talks on the door-stone in the evening would have surprised some people. Hank laid all his plans and ideas before the slim girl as he never would have thought of doing before her father. Hilda was going to be a ranchwoman. The Sorrows would belong to her and to her brother. She loved it all; she had the feeling for it; and the old man believed that a sense of responsibility could only come with a knowledge of what the responsibilities were. So, in March of the year when Hilda was fourteen, she knew as well as Hank did what the financial situation was on the ranch, and why it had come to a point where her guardian was almost at his wit’s end to go on. He had saved everywhere he could, doing with less help than he needed always, getting more out of his men by good treatment, making up the lack by extra work of his own, buying supplies with careful judgment, hesitating over every expense except those that Miss Valeria demanded—no use hesitating with Aunt Val; she always got what she wanted in the end. But the Sorrows had never been able to run enough cows, as the cattle country phrased it. Hank had helped out wherever he could by taking other men’s stock to pasture, “on the shares,” or “for the third calf.” He had paid off the smaller mortgage and kept up the interest on the larger one. He stood one afternoon near the side door of the ranch house, gazing out across the fields of the Sorrows, green as an emerald and sweet with the evening song of meadow larks. Hilda came up to him, slipped her hand into his and looked up into his face as though she had said, “What is it, Uncle Hank?” “Pasture for ten thousand cattle,” he sighed, “and I reckon we’re a-doing well if we can count up twenty-eight hundred in all. Well, honey, we’ll make out somehow—we always have made out so far—but I wish the Lord would show me how.” A big, six-mule freight wagon was just pulling up at the lower gate. They watched with interest while Slew-foot Crosby, the freighter, climbed down from the driver’s seat and started toward the house. When Slew caught sight of the two he raised a letter in his hand and shook it high above his head. “Howdy, Hilda. Hey, Pearsall; I brought this out from Dawn for you!” he shouted. “Hmm,” said Hank, “who’d be writing to me? Miss Valeria’s home, and Burch.” Drawing up, Crosby handed him the envelope and waited to share any interest that might be in its contents. Pearsall turned the letter over curiously a time or two.