“He sure did, Pettie. Your pa was as good as gold. He was the dearest father a little girl ever had. What he done when he was here, and what he would do if he was here now, would always be right for you to pattern by.”
Hank was puzzled on some points, but very clear as to what he wanted Hilda to understand on this. He was glad to see that his words were a relief to her.
“Then” (she was feeling her way, plainly with some secret difficulty in explaining herself), “if somebody came to you or me in trouble—in very dreadful trouble—some one that had been trying to get to father—some one that depended on him—that didn’t know he was dead and couldn’t help him—”
The big, black eyes, so like Charley’s own, held steadfastly to Uncle Hank’s attentive glance; they never wavered, till he bent down and laid his cheek upon her curls.
“You needn’t say another word, Pettie—nary another word. You’ve got just as good a right to keep your affairs to yourself as I’ve got, or as any other man’s got. If I can help you—if you want anything from Uncle Hank—just tell me so. Let me know what it is.”
“It’s awful good of you, Uncle Hank,” said Hilda. She debated with herself a moment in silence, then took it with a brave rush. “You mustn’t ask me where the Sunday pony’s gone, nor papa’s saddle and bridle.”
Hank plainly was startled, but he got his breath and came back gallantly with:
“I won’t, honey. By the holy poker—this is your own business! I don’t see why it ain’t—just as much as if you was a man a hundred and thirteen years old, instead of a little girl only thirteen.”
Hilda had all along assured herself, almost feverishly, that Uncle Hank would understand; but now, climbing the stairs to bed, looking back over her shoulder to where he sat, the sense of his forbearance was like a pang in her heart. She’d done something she dared not tell Uncle Hank. She’d deceived him. And she had done it for a boy who didn’t like Uncle Hank—who, for some strange, unaccountable reason seemed almost to hate him! Well, that had to be. But now she would make up to him for it. Never again—not on any other subject, anyhow—would she keep anything back from him. But Pearse—she knew if Pearse needed it she would again deceive the old man. It was very strange and puzzling; it hurt her.
She fell asleep, finally, then waked to the startling thought—that she’d put Uncle Hank second. He’d always been first. Well—she couldn’t help that, either.