“Oh—I’m just hoping to get him over here for you to see—that’s all.” The red rushed up in Hilda’s face; she flashed a shaky little smile at him. “How could he be a friend of mine—without being a friend of yours?”
He seemed about to answer that; thought better of it; finally said mildly:
“Pettie, spose we don’t speak no more of the matter—till he comes. Let’s put it by and be just like old times. There’s your Auntie on the porch. It’s doing Miss Valeria lots of good to be rich again. She’s a’ready got in new servants. I doubt not she has many a fine plan laid for you—now that expense doesn’t have to be considered.”
But all time is new time. Even “times” are always new ones—never just like “old times.” Always something has been taken out—or something added—that makes the new different. Here was Hilda eager, fond, loving everything and everybody on the ranch of the Three Sorrows more demonstratively than ever before in her life, yet Hank felt the difference as she rushed up the steps to greet her aunt, as she ran through the house to find Sam Kee in his kitchen.
An unseen presence seemed to come with her, very real: the young man who would be here in the flesh to-morrow—or the next day—or the next. Oh, he’d come. Hank never doubted that. Surely it was the thought of him that gave her such glowing cheeks, lit soft fires under the dusk of her lashes as they sat that night at the table.
“After all,” smiled Miss Val, very complacent in the new order of things, “it’s as well that Hilda’s come home. That ranch place wasn’t very suitable. Mr. Pearsall and I have been talking about your future, Hilda. Probably a good finishing school near New York for awhile—and then travel.”
Hilda and Uncle Hank exchanged a glance, both acutely conscious of the young man who was coming to the Three Sorrows on the next day—or the next. Neither said a word to Miss Valeria of the matter. They were still partners, that far. If Pearse Masters’ coming was to be the wedge between them—it had not yet divided them completely.
CHAPTER XXXI
A TELEGRAM
A pale Hilda, still plainly on nervous strain, sat at the breakfast table next morning. Uncle Hank—up and out an hour or two earlier—had ridden in for the meal. Aunt Valeria’s whole attention went to the new waitress she was training. At a signal from her, the girl brought a yellow envelope on a tray and offered it to Hilda—from the wrong side.
Miss Valeria frowned, signaled again sharply; the telegram—it could be nothing else—was whisked away from her niece’s eager fingers and properly presented. Hilda snatched it up and opened it with hands that shook.