The gate clicked, there was a rustling along the ribbon-grass bordering the narrow path, and then 'Tilda Jane's writing-pad fell to the ground, and she sprang up with a delighted scream.
For peering forward in the gathering gloom, she discovered Hank, the long-absent Hank, moving heavily and awkwardly up the path toward her.
He had grown thin; his clothes hung loosely on him, and he was pale and worried in appearance, but 'Tilda Jane did not criticise him. He was the person who had most helped her in her search for a home, and, springing toward him, she caught his arm and ejaculated: "Oh, Hank! Mr. Hank—is it truly you I'm pinchin', or is it a ghost?"
He smiled faintly, and, in return, pinched her cheek. "I ain't a ghost yet, though 'pon my word I didn't know but what I'd soon be one." As he spoke, he threw himself wearily on the seat. "Well, 'Tilda, how does Ciscasset treat you? Coronation! You're getting fat," and he scanned her in satisfaction. "I wouldn't know you for the little runaway that held me up last March out at Marsden."
"I guess I'm gettin' fat 'cause I'm peaceful in my mind," said 'Tilda Jane, demurely; "I don't have no one to fight. I'm jus' havin' the softest time!"
"So father really treats you well?"
"Of course—don't I write you? He's jus' as sweet as a peach. He lets me wash, an' scrub, an' cook, an' never says a word excep' not to work too hard, an' if he wants to be jus' a little bit cranky, jus' a teeny little bit, he goes in his room an' shuts the door till the bad spirit gets out of him."
"Did he ever hurt you?"
"No, he never struck me—he usen't to like the dogs."