“Oh, Pearse—you won’t let it go like this, will you? Everybody ought to be told just how it was.”
“What’s the use?” Pearse came close and took her hand. “Fayte knows how it was. The other boys know. The colonel could find out—if he wanted to. You and I don’t care. You’ll see that Marchbanks will pay old man Hipp for his steer. That’ll show he knows whose fault it all was.”
“Yes—and Maybelle. I thought she’d say something,” said Hilda.
“Oh—here you are, Hilda,” Mrs. Marchbanks came up, Jinnie at her heels. Tod had found some one to tell, if not Fayte. “Run back, Jinnie. Get your face washed, dear. We’re going to start home in a few minutes. I want to talk to Hilda.” Pearse, lifting his hat, led his pony past them, then checked and looked back to where Mrs. Marchbanks was already pulling Hilda down beside her on a fallen log.
“I’ll see you on the way home, Hilda,” he said quietly and went on.
“Well”—Mrs. Marchbanks stared after him with an offended air—“he doesn’t seem to have any doubts about what he’ll do, does he?”
Hilda was silent. Mrs. Marchbanks looked around at her and began hastily with a speech that sounded as though it had been prepared.
“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make trouble by the way you’ve behaved with this Pearse Masters. You’re just young and thoughtless. Fayte’s got a heart of gold, and he’s perfectly devoted to you. But he’s hot-headed, and if you—”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk to me this way, Mrs. Marchbanks,” Hilda protested.
“But a beautiful, fascinating girl like you has a great responsibility, Hilda; sometimes the very salvation of one of her boy friends may depend on her.”