“Well,” said the old man mildly, “seeing that it makes you that-a-way, I reckon I am. You see,” he took the slim hands that came out anxiously toward him, “you see, when the colonel first named it to me, I felt sort of doubtful, but now I know. You’ve showed me.”
CHAPTER XXII
YOUNG WINGS
There was no going to bed for Hilda now. Once out of Uncle Hank’s sight, she turned and ran noiselessly through the dim, empty, clean-smelling kitchen to the cyclone cellar, lighted her candle and began, with feverish eagerness, a letter to Pearse. She was tingling with a joy that had to express itself; all thought of her unsatisfactory talk with Pearse was swept away or changed. He’d be as glad of this chance to see her, where they could openly be friends, as she was.
Out over the page bubbled her child’s heart, which was scarcely yet the young girl’s heart, accusing herself—“I was horrid”—“I know you’ll forgive me”—“Just cross and tired”—“and hate to have to meet you on the sly.” She was almost drowned in the wonderfulness of the thought that at last they were to be together without deceit and without fear. The delight of it singing in her veins, she wrote with impulsive confidence. “Won’t it be lovely not to have to hide or tell any fibs, and to have our visit out at last? I have so many books I want to talk over with you. I have read all of Dickens—have you? Which one do you think is the best? Of course the critics praise ‘David Copperfield,’ but I love ‘Tale of Two Cities.’ I can’t ever read that last chapter without crying, and I’ve read it very, very many times.”
So, in sheer joy of heart, the letter ran on and on. It was nearly ten o’clock when it was finally stamped and addressed, and she slipped upstairs to find Burch in the front hall calling excitedly for Uncle Hank, who was just going up the stairs to his own room.
“I tell you I saw it just as plain as I see that lamp. Buster saw it, too.”
“I reckon it was the lamp—the shine of it through the winder, you know,” Hank argued calmly. “Don’t disturb your auntie.”
“What was it, Buddie?” inquired Hilda.
“A fire, out there in the brush by the irrigating ditch,” Burch replied, glad to have a listener who might display some excitement. “Buster and I were coming over from the bunk-house, and we saw it in that vine there, all blazing. We ran as hard as we could and hollered to the boys to bring a bucket—and just before we got there it suddenly went out.”
“Why, that’s queer,” laughed Hilda nervously. How careless of her to have forgotten the open shutter!