“We was married before we started on the return trip. It was the only arrangement to make. Mattie—any girl that thinks she’ll run away from school and marry some lively boy that she don’t know how he’ll turn out—well, I wish such a girl could have seen and heard my poor Mattie on her trip back to the ranch with me. She never mended in health, Pettie. I done everything I could, even to sending her back east—and it mighty nigh pulled the heart out of my breast to part with the boy. He hugged me ’round the neck with his little short arms and promised he’d take good care of his mother and bring her right back to me as soon as she was well.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank!” whispered Hilda, leaning her head against his arm.
“But she never come back. She died. At the time, I wasn’t where I could have the boy with me, as it seemed. Jeff Aiken—husband of Mattie’s sister—wrote that he had the little chap in school, that he was doing terrible well, and that it was Mattie’s wish that he should stay there. I sent the money for him, same as I’d been sending it to Mattie. Everything I had was for him—till— But that ain’t what I started out to tell you. That’s just an old man’s sorrow, and the thing that broke me all up and took my ranch and left me the lonesomest somebody in Texas.”
“You hadn’t any one left, had you, Uncle Hank?” Hilda found voice to say finally, when it seemed the old man would not go on.
“No. I hadn’t nobody. But I’ll tell you how that come, some other time, Pettie. What I’m trying to get you to notice now is that my poor Mattie ruined her life when she ran away from school to marry. She’d never have took Alf Moseley when she was older and had her full sense. It was the thing being secret—meeting Alf out without nobody knowing—and thinking it was great—that got her into it. That’s what I’m warning you against.”
Hilda nodded. She couldn’t get out a word, so she just nodded. What would Uncle Hank think if he knew about Pearse Masters and the cyclone cellar? But that was in the past. And suddenly the knowledge that she would have been glad of secret meetings with Pearse over at the Alamositas—that it was only his letter, showing that there was to be nothing of the sort, that had taken all the glow out of going—brought the tears. Uncle Hank was very penitent when he saw them.
“Don’t cry, honey,” he begged, patting her arm. “Nothing to cry about. All these troubles I been talking of is in the past. Mebbe I shouldn’t ’a’ named ’em to you. You got bright prospects ahead. You’ll be mighty happy over there, with a nice girl of your own age to go with, and a first-class teacher.”
“Let’s give it up, Uncle Hank,” she said chokingly. “I don’t want to go. I don’t care about the education or—or anything that there is over there in New Mexico. Really, I don’t. I’d rather stay here—at the Sorrows—with you.”
Hilda wiped her eyes and showed as clear a countenance as she could and drew up to face him. One of the boys came whistling along the path from the bunk-house. Sam Kee opened his kitchen door and threw out a pan of water.
“No, Pettie—no, you’re just tired—and a little scared to-night. Uncle Hank’s seen what it is you really do want—what you ought to have, anyhow. A chance to try your wings—to try your wings—”