“Come in here a minute, Pettie—I’ve got something to tell you that won’t keep till morning.”
She went in and sat down on the low stool near his chair, leaning over against his arm. Every line of her slim figure drooped; the arms hung listlessly at her sides.
“Pettie!” he said, in quick alarm. “Anything the matter, honey?”
“Oh, I stayed out too long. I’m perfectly dog tired. That’s all.”
“Umm-humm,” agreed the old man gently, “I should think you would be. When I went to the corral this evening I seen what horse it was you rode to Tres Piños.”
Eyes down, Hilda waited for the reproof. She was at that dead ebb, physical, mental, emotional, that could expect nothing but blame, defeat.
“Mose was the only one that could get there,” she said, lifelessly, offering it as a statement, not a defense.
“Why, I’m not mad at you about it, honey.” The old man’s voice was soft. “I’m proud of you. You asked for the horse in the first place—he’s your’n now.”
A little tingle of delight stirred the flat level of Hilda’s depression.
“You said he wouldn’t be fit for a lady for three years,” she began, and then broke off—“but then I’m not a lady. I suppose I’m just one of the youngsters. I can’t play decently on the piano, or—speak good Spanish—or any of those things. Maybe I never will.”