But grampa was not angry in a violent way this time. "He's more bothered than mad," she murmured, dispiritedly, and she drew aside to allow him to pass by her into the house.
"The dew's falling," he muttered, as he went by her. "I'll go sit in the kitchen a spell."
'Tilda Jane went mournfully to sit under the trees on a wooden bench that grampa had had made for her. The two dogs curled themselves up at her feet, and with a sigh she picked up a writing pad beside her. It was almost too dark to see the lines, but she must finish a letter that she had begun to write to Hank.
His former custom had been to scratch a line to his father once in six months to say he was alive and well, but since 'Tilda Jane's arrival he had written every week, and had addressed his letters to her.
It was a great pleasure to the little girl to get these letters, and an equal pleasure to answer them. She related to him every occurrence of her daily life, all details of his father's conduct except disagreeable ones, and her letters always ended with an urgent request that he would come and visit them.
This evening she had as usual made an appeal at the end of her letter. "Dear Mr. Hank, it seems a long time sence the snow was on the ground. I guess if you knew how much we want to see you you'd come hurryin' home. The dogs send love, Gippie specially 'cause he knows you. Poacher says he'd be happy to make your acquaintance—and, Mr. Hank, your father's kind of worried about somethin'. I guess he'd like to see you."
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE.
While 'Tilda Jane wrote, Poacher suddenly made a stealthy movement, and Gippie, deaf as he was, had enough of the dog spirit left in him to know that some one was coming, and to elevate the tiny V-shaped flaps over his ears.