“Oh,” she breathed—“oh, Uncle Hank!”
Hank had expected at least some reluctance on his girl’s part to leave the ranch. She’d had solid schooling, gone flying through the grammar grades, was well grounded in all the essentials now. To every proposition for further education she’d always said that she expected to be a ranchwoman, and, beyond what she had already, reading would have to take the place of schooling. But now, as he studied the tremulous face, he saw there would be a different answer, and he said quietly:
“That teacher’s a college graduate—the best to be had. She could get you ready for any college in the country, I reckon.”
Hilda lowered her eyes hastily.
“I—I liked Maybelle,” she said, speaking very low. “Isn’t it—a pretty name—Uncle Hank?”
“Right nice,” agreed Hank, suppressing a twinge—his girl, like any other girl, was looking for young companionship; that’s what made her eager for the New Mexico trip, and change.
Hilda, her eyes held defensively down, was flying back in thought to that unspoken prayer of hers for another minute—only a minute—another chance to pocket her pride and make it all right with Pearse. Hank watched her, puzzled.
“Er—you’re pleased, ain’t you, honey? You want to go—don’t you?”
Hilda started, and the look flashed up at him was almost like terror.
“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Why—doesn’t it come in splendidly? Aren’t you glad?”