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“What in time’s the matter?” the old man asked. Clarke Capadine had stood his ground, but Fayte Marchbanks was running. Hank caught sight of the gun in his hand. “Is the child shot?”

“My doll! My doll!” Hilda’s voice had come down to a moan. “I hadn’t but just one, and—”

Maybelle’s finger was in her mouth. She took it out to point to the little sprinkling of white scraps.

“Hilda—are you hurt?” That was her father. “Put her down, Pearsall. See if she’s injured.” Uncle Hank set her on her feet. The gust of passion had gone by. She was weak from it—and terribly ashamed.

“He broke her doll,” the old man explained. Hilda loved him for the serious tone. Maybelle giggled. Hilda heard another laugh somewhere, but it wasn’t Mr. Capadine, for he said:

“That boy ought to be thrashed.”

She turned and buried her face against Uncle Hank, sobbing now, but very quietly.

“Hilda—don’t be silly,” came Miss Val’s impatient voice. “Go get another doll to play with. See—you’re spoiling all the good time for your little visitors.”