A curious preoccupation had taken hold of these two castaways. They wandered about the house, and didn’t look at each other. Hilda’s coins burned in her pocket. Uncle Hank seemed to be vaguely looking for something.
“From his gal, I reckon,” was the comment brought out by a small bonbon box full of much-read letters. “No, they ain’t likely to be a thing on the place that Pettie would care for.” But anyhow he could cook. And so, soon after the noon meal, he barricaded himself in the kitchen, telling Hilda to occupy herself with such amusements as could be found in the parlor—“like a lady.” She agreed, promptly and without comment. She had important plans of her own afoot. It never occurred to her that she could take the liberty of presenting her Uncle Hank with anything that belonged to Frosty MacQueen. She dived instantly and eagerly into her own inner consciousness and personal belongings. The small bundle was unrolled and looked over.
The desperate plan of slashing right into one of the breadths of that blue silk dress to make a necktie for Uncle Hank wasn’t given up because Hilda would have grudged the sacrifice, only for lack of proper needles and thread. Frosty had a “housewife,” but the needle-book in it contained nothing but darners, some wicked three-cornered affairs for sewing leather—Hilda cut a finger on one of them and respectfully let them alone after that—and one short, fat needle almost as big as a darner. As for thread, there was some number eight, black, and some number thirty, white, and a mass of darning cotton. Did all Frosty’s sewing consist of darning and sewing on buttons? It looked like it. The cambric of her nightgown would have furnished pocket-handkerchiefs—of a sort—but again, she couldn’t hem handkerchiefs without fine thread and needle. Beyond this was a tooth-brush, a comb, an extra hair ribbon of faded complexion, and a little red Russian-leather note-book with her father’s name upon it.
This last brought the happy inspiration. She would write Uncle Hank a Christmas valentine—the combination was her own invention. Since the spirit of the gift must be all, she would freight it with that love which sometimes seemed to swell almost too big for her heart to hold, and hint delicately at something more material that would come later, when she could get in to Mesquite.
The last words of this composition were labored out in the dusk, and Hilda rose with a start to light her lamp and finish her preparations. There was no sound from the kitchen, but a most delicious odor oozed through a crack of the door. “Stay there, Pettie!” sounded Uncle Hank’s voice as she took the first step toward his part of the house. “I put you a lamp and matches on the table before I quit ye this afternoon. Is your fire all right? Are you—er—are you a-having a good time, honey?” solicitously. “I’ll open the door pretty soon.”
“No—don’t! I can light the lamp myself, Uncle Hank. Yes—oh, yes, I’m having a fine time. I’m busy—don’t open the door.”
A satisfied chuckle from behind the panels reached the child as she went back to the little stand and her Christmas valentine. She had carried her work to the window to have the last faint daylight upon it. Now, as she approached the pane, lamp in hand, two great eyes like balls of fire glared in at her from the snowy outside. She had just presence of mind to thrust her papers into the stand drawer as she turned back, crying out for Uncle Hank—for, beyond the first pair of fiery eyeballs, she had made out shadowy forms and yet more and more burning eyes!
The old man threw the door open with a bang, letting in a whiff of aromatic sweetness, and she plunged at him, clutching his shoulders with her little brown hands, hiding her face against his rough flannel shirt.
“Oh! Uncle Hank—the eyes—the eyes—glaring at me!” she cried.
“What!” his tone was hearty as he good humoredly shook her a little. “Not whiffenpoofs again—right here with Uncle Hank—and a good light and all?”