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“Uncle Hank, when papa died, did Fayte Marchbanks’ papa want to be our guardian—Burchie’s and mine?” She leaned her head back against the blue flannel shirt and tried to look at Uncle Hank over her forehead. His beard was a good deal in the way. She couldn’t see much.

“Now who in time would ’a’ told you anything about that?” He was out of patience—though not with her. It encouraged her to proceed.

“But he did?”

“I reckon he did, Pettie.”

“But he can’t—he can’t ever—could he, Uncle Hank?”

“No!” Hilda loved Uncle Hank’s voice when it was full and grave like that; it was so satisfying; it settled things; it gave her little thrills all down her spine. He went on. “Your pa left you to me—in a manner of speaking. Plenty witnesses. I—”

“Oh, Uncle Hank, I’m a witness,” a quick rush of tears in the black eyes. “I heard him say it, Uncle Hank. I heard you promise. It made me—” No use to begin that—she never could tell the old man how it made her feel toward him. So she finished softly, “I’m a witness.”