A Girl of the Plains Country

								

pictures. The foremost of these detached himself, came forward, and
was presented as O’Meara—“One of your boys, Mr. Van Brunt.” Hilda
liked the look of him, and was more pleased when he spoke.
“We didn’t know where you’d want your things,” he said modestly. “We
took everybody’s opinion—even the Chink’s—but at that we couldn’t
make out what some of ’em was intended for. We just put the trunks
around here and there to make it seem home-like.”
Hilda wondered that her aunt’s response to this should be so faint.
Shorty O’Meara’s ideas on furnishing and interior decoration had
immediate success with her. The open door of the office room showed
a big desk, some chairs, and a pile or two of books on the floor.
The little girl left that without further inquiry, and went into the
living-room where a spindle-legged, inlaid dressing table, with its
sweep of mirror, neighbored a trunk and several dining-room chairs.
There were more books here, on the floor, the chairs, the
window-sills. These latter were very deep. They might well have been
specially designed for sitting in of rainy afternoons to look at
picture books or play with dolls. The grown-ups walked about and
looked somewhat unhappy. She had forgotten them almost in her survey
of her new home. She presently got Burch and lugged him about,
talking to him, since he was the only individual present sensible
enough to really appreciate the attractiveness of the place. The
roughcast plastered walls looked so sheltering and strong. The open
doorway into the dining-room showed a great long table. All of those
men were going to eat there. She groped vaguely for a line in a
ballad with which her mother used to sing her to sleep—something
about the baron sitting in his hall and his retainers being blithe
and gay. The table wasn’t in the hall, of course, but otherwise it
was just the same.
Then came Aunt Valeria’s voice calling to her from upstairs; she
followed that weary lady, and she and Burch were washed and made
seemly for the table.
That first supper was a wonderful meal to her, too, with a lot of
tall men trooping in to sit at the board. Their bronzed faces, their
keen, forth-looking eyes, used to search great levels, the air of
individuality, of independence, laid powerful hold on the child’s
fancy. Every time a spur jingled beneath the table, or one of those
big voices boomed out suddenly, her heart leaped in swift though
uncomprehending response.
Afterward, in the living-room, she heard with some anxiety, Pearsall
doubtfully suggest to her father that they might want to build a
separate mess house for the men. Her father said no, he didn’t mind
the men at the table; and Hilda heaved a great sigh of relief. She
had already struck up quite a friendship with blond, talkative
Shorty O’Meara; she had even made some timid overtures to a lank,
elderly cynic who lived up to the name of Old Snake Thompson. To