[Frontispiece: "Cautiously Cynthia stepped closeand looked in . . . Sandy was painting at his easel"]

A SON OF THE HILLS

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF

JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, JANET OF THE DUNES, ETC. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1913, by

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

 _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_

A Son of the Hills

CHAPTER I

Lost Hollow lies close at the foot of the mountain which gives it itsname. The height of neither is great, geographically considered; thepeak is perhaps eighteen hundred feet above sea level: The Hollow, athousand, and from that down to The Forge there is a gradual descent byseveral trails and one road, a very deplorable one, known as TheAppointed Way, but abbreviated into--The Way. 

There are a few wretched cabins in Lost Hollow, detached and dreary;between The Hollow and The Forge are some farms showing more or lesscultivation, and there is the Walden Place, known before the war--theystill speak of that event among the southern hills as if Sheridan hadridden through in the morning and might be expected back at night--asthe Great House. 

Among the crevasses of the mountains there are Blind Tigers, or SpeakEasies--as the stills are called--and, although there is little tradingdone with the whiskey outside the country side, there is much mischiefachieved among the natives who have no pleasure of relaxation exceptsuch as is evolved from the delirium brought about by intoxication. 

The time of this story is not to-day nor is it very many yesterdaysago; it was just before young Sandy Morley had his final "call" andobeyed it; just after the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady came to TroubleNeck--three miles from The Hollow--and while she was still distrustedand feared. 

Away back in the days of the Revolution the people of the hills were ofthe best. All of them who could serve their country then, did it noblyand well. Some of them signed the Declaration of Independence and thenreturned to their homes with the dignity and courage of men in whoseveins flowed aristocratic blood as well as that of adventurous freemen. There they waited for the recognition they expected and deserved. Butthe new-born republic was too busy and breathless to seek them out orpause to listen to their voices, which were softer, less insistent thanothers nearer by. In those far past times the Morleys and theHertfords were equals and the Walden Place deserved its name of theGreat House. The Appointed Way was the Big Road, and was kept in goodorder by well-fed and contented slaves who had not then dreamed offreedom. 

The final acceptance of the hill people's fate came like a deadeningshock to the men and women of the Lost Mountain district--they wereforgotten in the new dispensation; in the readjustment they wereoverlooked! The Hertfords left the hills with uplifted and indignantheads--they had the courage of their convictions and meant to take whatlittle was left to them and demand recognition elsewhere--they hadalways been rovers. Besides, just at that time Lansing Hertford andSandford Morley, sworn friends and close comrades, had had that secretmisunderstanding that was only whispered about then, and it made iteasier for Hertford to turn his back upon his home lands and leave themto the gradual decay to which they were already doomed. The Waldenshad retained enough of this world's goods to enable them to descend thesocial scale slower than their neighbours. Inch by inch they debatedthe ground, and it was only after the Civil War that Fate gripped themnoticeably. Up to that time they had been able to hide, from the nonetoo discriminating natives, the true state of affairs. 

The Morleys and the Tabers, the Townleys and the Moores, once theyrecognized the true significance of what had happened, made nostruggle; uttered no defiance. They slunk farther back into the hills;they shrank from observation and depended more and more uponthemselves. They intermarried and reaped the results with sullenindifference. Their hopes and longings sank into voiceless silence. Now and then Inheritance, in one form or another, flared forth, butbefore it could form itself into expression it was stilled andforbidden, by circumstances, to assert itself. 

Sad, depressed Lost Hollow! Over it loomed darkly the mountain whosepeak was so often shrouded in clouds. The people loved the hills andthe shadows; they glided like wan ghosts up and down The Way or took tothe more sheltered trails. When they were sober they were gentle, harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men became dullybrutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children what one mightexpect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in intellect, misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like frightenedanimals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept how and asthey could. 

After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were groundbetween the nether millstone of their more prosperous neighbours andthat of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level. Their voiceswere hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out in theirpresent degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia Walden wereborn and some high and just God seemed to strengthen their childishvoices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their Inheritance chargeover them. 

Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people; itwas too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church atThe Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and belowthe need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised andannoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not cometo The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed therebecause he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious andbitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses for aburial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such interferenceswith his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often. But MartinMorley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She was a Forgegirl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her boldly to theparsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and went his way. 

There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under LostMountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mendedwithout and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasksand inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to theconclusion that he must get away! Get away from the poverty andsqualor of The Hollow; get away farther than The Forge--far, far away!

"After the baby comes!" the little wife whispered, "we'll take it to abetter, sunnier place and--give it a chance!"

The baby came on a bad, stormy night. Sandford Morley they called him. The Forge doctor, travelling up The Way, stopped at the Morley cabinfor a bite of supper and found how things were. Sally Taber was incommand, and Martin, frightened and awed, crouched by the chimneycorner in the living-room, while his girl-wife (she was much youngerthan he) made her desperate fight. 

"There's only a broken head or two up at Teale's Blind Tiger, " thedoctor said grimly; "they can wait, I reckon, while I steer thisyoungster into port. " The doctor had come from the coast on account ofhis lungs and his speech still held the flavour of the sea. 

Sandy Morley made a difficult mooring with more vigour anddetermination than one would have expected, but the cost was great. All night the battle waged. The doctor, with coat off and haggardface, fought with the little mother inch by inch, but at sunrise, justtwo hours after Sandy lustily announced his arrival, she let go thehand of her husband who knelt by her hard, narrow bed, and whispered inthe dialect of her hills, "Youcum!"--which meant that Morley must cometo her some where, some how, some time, for she no longer could bidewith him. 

After that Martin stayed on in the cabin with the baby. One womanafter another lent her aid in an hour of need, but on the whole Sandyand his father made it out together as best they could. The little, clinging fingers held Martin back for a time--the boy had his mother'sfine, clear eyes and when he looked at Martin something commanded theman to stand firm. In those days Martin found comfort in religion andbecame a power at the camp meetings; his prayers were renowned far andnear, but the evil clutched him in an unguarded hour and one bleak, dreary springtime he met the Woman Mary and--let go! That was whenSandy was seven. He brought Mary to the cabin and almost shamefacedlyexplained, to the wondering boy, his act. 

"Son, she's come to take care of us--mind your ways, lad. "

Sandy gave Mary's handsome smiling face one quick look, then fled downthe hill, across the bottom pasture and Branch, up on the farther sideto the woods--his sanctury and haven, and there, lifting his eyes andlittle clenched fists, he moaned over and over:

"Curse her! curse her! I hate her!"

He had never hated before; never cursed, but at that moment he cursedthat which he hated. 

It was early spring then, and under the tall, dark trees the dogwoodbushes were in full bloom. Sandy was touched, always, by beauty, andin his excited state he thought in that desperate hour that the dogwoodblossoms were like stars under a stormy cloud. Heaven seemed reachingdown to him, and closing him in--his thoughts were tinged by Martin'sreligious outbursts and the native superstition of the hills. It wasthen and there that the child first knew he must go away! The call wasdistinct and compelling--he must go away! And from that hour he madepreparation. At first the effort was small and pitiful. He began togather whatever Nature provided freely, and turn it into money. Withshrewd perception he realized he must overcome his deadly shyness andcarry his wares farther than The Hollow if he wished to achieve thatupon which he was bent. The Hollow people were poor; The Forge peoplewould give food and clothing for berries and sassafras roots; but Sandydemanded money or that which could be exchanged for money, and so hetravelled far with his basket of fragrant berries or shining nuts andin time he found himself at the Waldens' back door facing a tall blackwoman, in turban and kerchief, with the child Cynthia beside her. 

"Do you-all want to buy eight quarts of wild strawberries?" he asked inthat low fine voice of his. 

"Buy?" demanded Lily Ivy scornfully. "Miss Cyn, honey, go fotch MissAnn and tell her one ob dem Morleys is here axing us-all to buy hisberries, and him in shreds and tatters!"

Presently Cynthia returned with her aunt. Miss Walden was then sixty, but she looked seventy-five at least; she was a stern, detached womanwho dealt with things individually and as she could--she never soughtto comprehend that which was not writ large and clear. She was not adull nor an ignorant woman, but she had been carried on the sluggishcurrent of life with small effort or resistance. She did her task andmade no demands. 

"So you're Morley's boy?" she asked curiously; she had still theinterest of the great lady for her dependents. The Morleys had becomelong since "poor whites, " but Ann Walden knew their traditions. Thefamily had slunk into hiding ever since Martin had taken the Woman Maryinto his cabin, and Miss Walden was surprised and aroused to find oneof them coming to the surface at her back door with so unusual arequest as Cynthia had repeated. 

"Yes, ma'am;" Sandy replied, his strange eyes fixed upon the calm oldface. 

"And what do you want?"

"I want to sell eight quarts of strawberries, ma'am. They are fivecents a quart; that's what they are giving down to The Forge. "

"Then why don't you take them to The Forge?"

"The heat, ma'am, will wilt them. They are right fresh now--I thoughtI'd give you-all the first chance. "

"And you want money for the berries--and you in rags and starved, Iwarrant?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

Ann Walden grew more interested. 

"Would you--take eggs for them?" she asked; "eggs are bringing twentycents a dozen now. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

"How do I know you are honest? How do I know the basket isn't stuffedwith leaves in the bottom? What's your name?"

"Sandy, ma'am. And please, ma'am, you can measure the berries. "

"Ivy, bring the quart measure, and the earthen bowl. "

When the implements were brought, Miss Walden took things in her ownhands, while Ivy, with the disdain of the old family black servant forthe poor white, stood by like an avenging Fate. The child Cynthia wasall a-tremble. She was young, lovely, and vital. Youth took up armsfor youth, and watched the outcome with jealous and anxious eyes. 

"One, two, three----" the rich, fragrant fruit fell into the bowl withluscious, soft thuds; the red juice oozed out like fresh blood. 

"Five, six, seven--eight, and----"

"A lot left over, Aunt Ann, counting dents in the measure and all. "

It was Cynthia who spoke, and her big, gray eyes were dancing intriumph. 

"More'n eight quarts, Aunt Ann. "

"Umph!" ejaculated Ivy. 

"Give the boy two dozen eggs and three over, " commanded Miss Walden. "Take them to Tod Greeley at the post office and tell him they areWalden eggs. "

After Sandy had departed Ivy aired her views. 

"I reckon we-all better make jam of dem berries right soon. I clar Iallers 'spect to find a yaller streak in dem Morleys. "

Cynthia was leaning against the kitchen table, her eyes shining and herbreath coming a bit quickly. 

"Perhaps, " she said, with the slow smile which curled the corners ofher mouth so deliciously, "perhaps the yellow streak in Sandy Morleyis--gold!"

That was the beginning of Sandy's first great inspiration. Again andagain he went to the Walden place with his wares and exchanged them forthings that could be readily turned into money. Then Cynthia, from outher own generous loveliness, offered to pass over the instruction AnnWalden imparted to her, to the boy; he had before that told her of hisambition and determination to go away, and her vivid imagination wasstirred. 

"It's not only money, " Cynthia had astutely warned him--"not only moneyyou must have, Sandy, but learning; no one can take that away from you!"

With a fine air of the benefactress, Cynthia Walden took Sandy Morley'sdense ignorance in charge. It was quite in keeping with the girl'sidea of things as they ought to be, that she should thus illumine andguide the boy's path. 

She was charmingly firm but delightfully playful. She was a hardmistress but a lovely child, and the youth that was starving in her metSandy on a level, untouched by conventions or traditions. Presently apalpitating sense of power and possession came to her. The creaturewho was at first but the recipient of her charity and nobilitydisplayed traits that compelled respect and admiration. Sandy easilyoutstripped her after a time. His questions put her on her mettle. Henever overstepped the bounds that she in her pretty childish fancy set, but he reached across them with pleading adoration and hungry mind. Heseemed to urge her to get for him what he could not get for himself. And so, with the freedom of knowledge, Sandy, still keeping to hisplace, began to assume proportions and importance quite thrilling. Then it was that Cynthia Walden, with keenness and foresight, made herclaims upon the boy. 

With a pretty show of condescending kindness she clutched him to herwith invisible ties. For _her_ he must do thus and so! He must becomea great--oh! a very great--man and give her all the credit! If he wentaway--_when_ he went away--he must never, never, never forget her orwhat she had done for him! In short, he must be her abject slave andpay homage to her all the days of his life!

Sandy was quite willing to comply with all these demands; they weremade in a spirit so sweet and winsome, and they were so obviouslysimple and just, that he rose to the call with grateful response, butwith that strange something in reserve that Cynthia could not thenunderstand or classify. It was as though Sandy had said to her: "Yourslave? Yes, but no fetters or chains, thank you!"

Soon after Mary came to live in the Morley cabin Sandy was relegated toan old outhouse for sleeping quarters. The child had been horriblyfrightened at first, but, as the quarrels and disturbances grew inpower between Martin and the woman, he was grateful for the quiet anddetachment of his bed-chamber. A child was born to Mary and Martinduring the year following the change in the family, but Sandy lookedupon his half-sister with little interest. That the boy was not drivenentirely from the home place was due to the fact that through him camethe only money available. Martin exchanged his spasmodic labour forclothing or food, but Sandy brought cash. Mary thought he gave herall, and because of that he was tolerated. 

Sandy did not, however, give the woman all, or even half, of what heearned. He gave her one third; the rest was placed in a tin box andhidden under a rock in the woods beyond the Branch. The boy nevercounted the money, he could not put himself to that test ofdiscouragement or elation. The time was not yet, and it wassignificant of him that he plodded along, doing the best that was inhim, until the call came; the last final call to leave all and go forth. 

Once, during the years between seven and fourteen, Sandy had had anawakening and a warning. Then it was that his half-sister, Molly, became a distinct and potent factor in his life; one with which he mustreckon. Going to the rock on a certain evening to bury his share ofthe day's profit he wearily raised the stone, deposited the money andturned to go home, when he encountered Molly peering at him with elfishand menacing eyes from behind a bush. 

"What you doing there, yo' Sandy?" she asked half coaxingly, halfthreateningly. 

"Nothing. "

"I seen you--a-hiding something. I'm going to look!" She made amovement forward. 

"Hyar! you Molly!" Sandy clung to her. "If you raise that stone 'twillbe the last of you. I've got a horned toad there and--a poisonsarpint. "

"Then I'll--I'll tell Dad. " Molly shrank back, though not whollyconvinced. It was time for compromise, and Sandy, with a sickeningfear, recognized it and blindly fell upon the one thing that could haveswayed the girl. 

"I'm a-training and taming them, " he lied desperately, "and when theyare ready we-all can make money out of them, but if you tell--Dad willkill 'em! I tell you, Molly, if you don't say a single thingI'll--I'll give you a cent every week. A cent to buy candy with!"

The promise was given, and from that day Sandy paid his blood money, hoping that greed would hold the child to her bargain, but with alwaysa feeling of insecurity. He changed his box to another rock, but acertain uncanniness about Molly gained a power over him and he neverfelt safe. 

Things went rapidly from bad to worse in the Morley cabin. Martinforgot his prayers and ambitions; he grew subservient to Mary and neverstrove against her, even when her wrath and temper were directed towardhim and Sandy. Discredited and disliked by his neighbours, flouted bythe woman who had used him for her own gain, the man became adetestable and pitiable creature. Sandy endured the blows and ratingsthat became his portion, in the family disturbances, with proudsilence. He was making ready and until the hour of his departure camehe must bear his part. 

It was during the probation and preparatory period that Marcia Lowe, the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady, came up The Way one golden afternoon andstopped her horse before the post office, General Store and County Clubof The Hollow, and, leaning out from the ramshackle buggy, gave arather high, nasal call to whoever might be within. 

CHAPTER II

Tod Greeley, the postmaster, was sitting on his cracker boxcontemplatively eying the rusty stove enthroned upon its sawdustplatform, in the middle of the store. Every man in The Hollow had hisown particular chair or box when the circle, known as the County Club, formed for recreation or business. No one presumed to occupy another'splace: Tod Greeley's pedestal was a cracker box and its sides were wellbattered from the blows his heels gave it when emotions ran high or hissentiments differed from his neighbour's. Greeley was not a Hollow man;he had been selected by Providence, as he himself would have said, toperform a service for his country: namely, that of postmaster, storekeeper, and arbiter of things in general. He was a tall, lean manof forty, good looking, indolent, and with some force of character whichwas mainly evinced by his power of keeping his temper when he was facinga critical situation. While not of The Hollow, he was still _with_ TheHollow on principle. 

When Marcia Lowe paused before the store and emitted her call, whichflavoured of friendliness and the North, Greeley was vacantly lookinginto space, hugging his bony knees, and listening to an indignant flybuzzing on the dirty glass of the back window, protesting against anyexit being barred to its egress. 

It was three o'clock of a late July day and, while the sun was hot, thebreeze gave promise of a cool night. 

"Ooh! ooh!"

Just at first Greeley thought the fly had adopted a more militant tone. 

"Oooh--ooh!"

Greeley pulled himself together, mentally and physically, and stalked tothe porch; there he encountered the very frank, smiling face of a ratherattractive youngish woman who greeted him cordially with a high-pitchedbut sweet:

"Good afternoon. "

"Good evening, ma'am, " Tod returned. 

"I just came up from The Forge; your roads are really scandalous, but thescenery is beautiful. I want to see if there is any place near herewhere I can get board? I've come to stay for a while, anyway; probablyfor years, at least. "

The young person seemed so eager to share her confidence that Greeley wason his guard at once. He did not approve of the stills back among thehills, but he did not feel called upon to assist any government spy inher work, no matter how attractive and subtle the spy was. 

It was two years now since a certain consumptive-looking young man hadcaused the upheaval of a private enterprise back of The Hollow and madeso much unpleasantness, but Norman Teale had served his term in prisonand had got on his feet once more, and Greeley had a momentary touch ofsympathy for the Speak-Easy magnates as he glanced up at this new styleof spy. 

"Nobody stays on in The Hollow lest he has to, " he said cautiously, "andas for boarding-places, there never was such a thing here, I reckon. Icertainly don't expect they would take any one in at the Walden place, not if they-all was starving. Miss Ann Walden is quality from way back. The Morleys couldn't entertain, and what's true of the Morleys is true ofall the others. "

"Couldn't you folks take me?"

At this Greeley collapsed on the one chair of the porch, and actuallygasped. 

"I ain't got what you might call folks, " he managed to say, "unless youcall a brace of dogs, folks. "

"Oh! I beg your pardon. " Miss Lowe flushed and gave a nervous laugh. "You see I just must manage to find a home here, and--and I've heard somuch of Southern chivalry and hospitality I rather hoped some one wouldtake me in until I could look around. The place at The Forge, where I'vebeen for two nights is--impossible, and the darkies have their handsstretched out for tips until I feel like a palmist, and a bankrupt one atthat!"

A merry laugh rang out and in spite of himself and his grave doubtsGreeley relaxed. 

"If you don't mind doing for yourself, " he ventured, "there's a cabinover to Trouble Neck that you might get. "

"Do for myself?" Miss Lowe cried energetically. "I'd just favour thatplan, I can tell you! I could get all the furniture I need at The Forge, I am sure. The name of the place isn't exactly cheering, but then I'vewaded through trouble and got on top all my life long. Who owns thecabin over at Trouble Neck?"

Property rights in and around The Hollow were rarely discussed; it was adelicate question, but what was not actually held down by anothergenerally was conceded to a certain Smith Crothers and to his credit TodGreeley now put the Trouble Neck cabin. 

"Oh! He's the man who owns the factory a few miles from The Forge? Idrove past it yesterday at noon time. I thought it was an orphan asylumat first. I never saw such babies put to work before. It's monstrousand the law ought to shut down on your Smith Crothers!"

At this Greeley had a distinct sensation of pain in the region known asthe pit of his stomach. That Smith Crothers should fall under any lawhad never been dreamed of by mortal man or woman in Greeley's presencebefore. The right of free whiskey was one thing; the right of a man toutilize the children of the district was another!

"He ain't my Smith Crothers!" Greeley inanely returned, feeling in adazed way that he did not want to put in any claim for Crothers withthose apparently innocent eyes upon him. 

"Well, I'll try to buy the Trouble Neck place from Smith Crothers atonce. You see I've been very sick; they said I'd lost my health, but Iknow I've only misplaced it. "

Again the cheerful laugh set Greeley's nerves tingling. 

"They-all say that when they-all come up here. "

Greeley felt in honour bound to give the young woman a hint as to hisreading of her and her mission. 

"It's a good spot, then, for weak lungs?"

"None better, " Tod nodded sagely, "but they don't last long. "

"What? The weak lungs? That's splendid! And now would you mind givingmy horse a drink? Isn't it funny what nice horses they manage to evolvein the South on food that would end a cart-horse's existence up North?But such vehicles! Do look at this buggy! And no springs to mention. My! but my back will ache to-morrow. "

By this time Greeley had procured a pail of water and was courteouslyholding it to the nose of the very grateful horse. 

"I wonder, " Miss Lowe casually remarked, as she let the reins fall in lapand looked about, "if you happen to have known a Theodore Starr who oncelived here?"

"I've heard of him, " Tod returned; "I ain't a Hollow man. I only camehere on business six years ago, but the memory of Starr sort of clingslike it was a good thing to keep alive. "

"How beautifully you put it!"

Greeley was thinking how well the government had stocked this dangerousspy with facts, and so he did not observe the tears in her eyes. 

"There was a little church he built himself--is it still standing? Youmay not have heard, but he had a very simple little religion quite hisown. He thought the people up here were more in need of help thanforeign folks, but no regular sect would--would handle him. So he cameup a road he used to call The Appointed Way and just settled down andlearned to love all--the people and the work!"

Greeley was so utterly amazed that the hands which held the pail shookwith excitement. 

"That road what you came up is called The Way--short for Appointed Way. Yon is the little church. "

Marcia Lowe raised up and through the thicket behind her she saw thedeserted structure, which still bore the outlines of a church. 

"Why, it's all boarded up!" she exclaimed. "Who owns it now?"

The exacting nature of the stranger's questions was unsettling toGreeley. She seemed determined to tag and classify all the real estatein the county. 

"No one ain't damaged the building, " he said drawlingly; "some of thefolks think it is han'ted. I reckon Smith Crothers owns it. "

"That man owns too much!" Marcia Lowe gave again her penetrating laugh. "And I should think the place would be haunted. Just think of boardingUncle Theodore up! He who loved sunshine and air and sweetness so much!"

At this Greeley dropped the pail to the ground, and the indignant horsereared angrily. This was carrying things too far, and the man's eyesflashed. 

"Uncle?" he gasped sternly. 

"Yes, Uncle Theodore Starr. He was my mother's brother. I have no oneto keep me away now--and I loved him so when I was a little child. Theysay I am much like him--but then you never saw him. Lately I've beenreal homesick for him. He seemed to be calling me from the hills. I'mgoing to get your Smith Crothers to let me open up the little church. Iwant the sunshine to get in and--and Uncle Theodore to--get out! I'mgoing to find where they buried him, and make that a beautiful place too. You see I've a good deal to do up here! Besides, " and now the cheerfulface beamed radiantly on the gaping postmaster, "I'm like Uncle Starr inmore ways than one. He learned to mend men's souls and I have learned tomend their bodies--it's much the same, you know--when you love it. I'm--well, I'm an M. D. , a medical doctor--Doctor Marcia Lowe!"

At this Greeley dropped on the bottom step of the porch, wiped theperspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, and emitted oneword. 

"Gawd!" He was not a profane man, but the audacity of this stranger whowas about to settle down among them for purposes best known to herself, and them who sent her, quite overcame him. Marcia Lowe gave a heartylaugh and gathered the reins. 

"I suppose you never heard of such a thing up here?" she asked amusedly, "but they are getting commoner down where I hail from. It's all veryfoolish--the restrictions about a woman, you know. She can nurse a bodyup to the doors of death, but it's taken a good while to bring peoplearound to seeing that she can mend a body as well, just as well as a man. You will let me stay among you anyway, I am sure. I do not want tophysic you. It is so much more interesting to live close and help along. Good-bye, Mr. Greeley--you see your name is over the door! I am, do notforget"--the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously--"Doctor Marcia Lowe ofTorrance, Mass. Good-bye! You have been very kind and helpful. I feelthat you and I will be good friends. Get-up, pony!"

She flapped the reins in the most unprofessional manner, and the horseturned to The Appointed Way with briskness that bespoke his impatienceand a desire for more familiar scenes. 

With curious eyes Greeley watched the ramshackle buggy bounce up and downover the rutty road; he saw the small, slight figure bob aboutuncomfortably on the uneven seat, and when the conveyance was lost behindthe trees he went inside with a sure sense that something was going tohappen in The Hollow. 

Once again within his own domain he sought his cracker box as if it werehis sanctuary. The fly was still protesting against the dirty window, and the stillness, except for the buzzing, was unbroken. 

Presently, from out the nowhere apparently, old Andrew Townley came inand shuffled across the floor to the armchair by the stove. Then MasonHope appeared, hands in pockets and lank hair falling on his shoulders. Norman Teale came next, with Tansey Moore in tow. 

"Howdy, Tod?" was the universal greeting as the County Club took itsplace. The chair of Smith Crothers, and two or three overturned potatobaskets--seats of the junior members of the club--were empty. It wasbeneath the dignity of any man present to question what had justoccurred, but every son of them had witnessed it and in due time wouldtouch upon the subject. 

The stove, summer and winter, focussed their wandering eyes and acted asa stimulus to their dormant faculties. From long practice andinheritance every man could aim and hit the sawdust under the stove whenhe expectorated. Even old Andrew Townley had never been known to fail. 

"There be some right good horses down to The Forge, " Tansey Mooreventured after a while. 

"It's a blamed risky thing, though, " said Mason Hope, "to let a--ladydrive 'em. I've allus noticed that a woman is more sot on gittin' whereshe wants to git--than to considering _how_ to git there. It's mightyrisky to trust horseflesh to a female. They seem to reckon all horses ismachines. "

"I've seen men as didn't know a hoss from a steam engine, " Norman Tealebroke in, glancing sharply at Moore. "Times is when a hoss has to besacrificed to man--but I reckon The Forge folks was taking some riskswhen they-all hired out a team to a stranger. "

"That stranger, " said Greeley, hitting the nail on the head with aviolence that brought his audience to an upright position, "ain't nothingshort of, to my mind, than"--he glanced at Teale--"well, she ain't, andthat's my opinion! She comes loaded with facts up to her teeth. Knowsall the names, and says she's going to settle down over to Trouble Neckand--live along with us-all quite a spell. Weak lungs and all, but she'sa right new brand. "

"Hell!" ejaculated Teale, springing to his feet. "If the government hasgot so low that it has to trifle with ladies--it's in a bad way. Ireckon I better git a-moving. Any mail, Tod? I take it right friendlythat you give me this hint. A lady may be hard to handle in some ways, but we-all can at least know where she is--that's something. "

After the departure of Teale the club fell into moody gloom. It wasalways upsetting to have outside interference with their affairs. Evenif Teale wasn't arrested the whiskey would be limited for a time, andthat was a drawback to manly rights. 

Andrew Townley fell into an audible doze; he was the oldest inhabitantand a respected citizen. He was given to periods of senile dementiapreceded or followed by flashes of almost superhuman intelligence. Therewere times when, arousing suddenly from sleep, he would bring somestartling memory with him that would electrify his hearers. He was aninstitution and a relic--every one revered him and looked to his simplecomfort. Suddenly now, as the dense silence enveloped the club, oldAndrew awoke and remarked vividly:

"I was a-dreaming of Theodore Starr!"

"Now what in thunder!" cried Tod Greeley, who had purposely refrainedfrom mentioning some part of his late visitor's conversation, --"what madeyou think of--Theodore Starr?"

"I reckon, " whined the trembling old voice, "that it was 'long o' LizaHope. I was a-passing by and I heard her calling on God-a'mighty tostand by her in her hour. Theodore Starr was mighty pitiful of women intheir hours. "

Mason Hope felt called upon, at this, to explain and apologize. He didso with the patient air of one detached and disdainful. 

"Liza do make a powerful scene when she is called to pass through hertrial. This is her ninth, and I done urged her to act sensible, but whenI saw how it was going with her, I just left her to reason it out alongher own lines. Sally Taber is sitting 'long of her ready to help whenthe time comes. I done all I could. " Tansey Moore nodded significantly. He had an unreasonable wife of his own, and he had no sympathy with womenin their "hours. "

"Theodore Starr, he done say, " Townley was becoming lachrymose, "thatwomen got mighty nigh to God when they reached up to Him in their trialand offered life for a life. He done say if God didn't forgive a womanevery earthly thing for such suffering, he was no good God. He done saythat to me onct. "

"That be plain blasphemy, " Tansey Moore remarked. "I reckon he was aright poor parson. The religion he doctored with was all soothin' syrupand mighty diluted at that, where women was concerned. I never trustedthat Yankee. "

"The women, children, and old folks counted some on him in his day. "Greeley was getting interested in this heretofore myth. Moore nodded hishead suspiciously. 

"They sho' did, and a mess they made of it. Did you ever hear 'bout hismix-up with the Walden girls?"

Greeley never had and, as the last Walden "girl" was a woman of sixty andover, he looked puzzled. 

"Miss Ann, her as _is_ now, was considerable older than Theodore Starr, but she shined up to him and let him lead her about considerable--somesaid him and her was--engaged to marry. Then there was the Walden girlas _isn't_ now, her they called Queenie. She was a right pert littlething what growed into a woman like a Jonas gourd, sudden and startling!That was the summer that young Lansing Hertford came back to the old homeplace of his forebears to look about--there was a general mess of thingsup to Stoneledge those days, and all I know is that Starr he went up intothe hills to nurse a fever plague and there he died. Lansing Hertfordwent off like a shot--but them Hertfords allus lit out like they waschased--never could stand loneliness and lack of luxury. Queenie, shedone died the winter following that summer; died of lung trouble off tosome hospital way off somewhere, and Miss Ann she settled down--an oldwoman from that time on! You can't get her to speak Starr's name. Younever could. Us-all tried. When things got too hard for Miss Ann shedone adopt little Miss Cyn--that chile has considerable brightened upMiss Ann, but Lord! she never was the same after that summer, and I hold, and allus shall, that Starr wasn't what we-all thought him at first. Aman don't go dying off in the hills for folks what hadn't any call uponhim, lest he has a reason for doing so. "

Moore loved to talk. Some one always has to be the orator of a club, andTansey, self-elected, filled this position in the circle around the oldstove. Greeley was bored. Past history did not concern him and Moore'sopinions he ignored. He had not been listening closely, for his thoughtswould, in spite of him, follow the ramshackle buggy down The Way. 

"She had a right pleasant look and manner, " he pondered. "I reckonshe'll get some fun out of her job, no matter what that job is. "

CHAPTER III

It was something of a jog to The Hollow people to find Miss Loweactually settled at Trouble Neck. They had looked upon the possibilityof her coming as an evil which threatened but might be averted. Shehad come, however; had actually bought the cabin from Smith Crothers, and fitted it up in a manner never known to cabin folks before. 

Through all the pleasant summer days the broad door of the little housestood invitingly open and flowers had grown up as if by magic in thetiny front yard. A few choice hens and roosters strutted around therear of the cabin quite at home, and a bright yellow cat purred anddozed on the tiny porch by day and slept in the lean-to bedroom bynight. 

"She takes a mighty heap of trouble to hide her tracks, " Norman Tealeconfided to Tansey Moore; "but spy is writ large and plain all overher. I put it to you, Moore, would any one that didn't have to, cometo Trouble Neck?"

Tansey thought not, decidedly. 

"And did you ever hear on a woman doctor?"

Again Tansey shook his head. 

"That woman's bent on mischief, " Teale went on. "I got chivalry andI've got honour for womanhood in my nater when womanhood keeps to itsplace, but I tell you, Moore, right here and now, if that young personfrom Trouble Neck comes loitering 'round my business, I'm going totreat her like what I would a man. No better; no worse. "

Moore considered this a very broad and charitable way of looking uponwhat was, at best, a doubtful business. 

But Marcia Lowe did not seek Teale out, and if his affairs interestedher, she hid her sentiments in a charming manner. Her aim, apparently, was to reach the women and children. To her door she won Sandy Morleywith the lure of money for his wares. The second time Sandy called hetold her of his ambitions and she fired him to greater effort bytelling him of her home state, Massachusetts. 

"Why, Sandy, " she explained, "when you are ready, do go there. Inexchange for certain work they will make it possible for you to get aneducation. I know plenty of boys who have worked their way throughcollege with less than you have to offer. Get a little more money andlearning, and then go direct to Massachusetts!"

Sandy's breath came quick and fast. Work was part of his daily life, but that it and education could be combined he had not considered. From that time on his aim became localized and vital. 

"Perhaps I can help you a bit?" Miss Lowe had suggested. She was oftenso lonely that the idea of having this bright, interesting boy with herat times was delightful. 

"I'll--I'll bring all your vegetables to you if you will, " Sandypanted. "I'll dig your garden and weed it. I'll----"

"Stop! stop! Sandy. " Miss Lowe laughed, delighted. "If you offer somuch in Massachusetts they will give you _two_ educations. They'reterribly honest folks and cannot abide being under obligations. "

So Sandy came; did certain chores and was given glimpses of fields oflearning that filled him at first with alternate despair andexultation. He confided his new opportunity to Cynthia Walden and tohis amazement that young woman greeted his success with anything butjoy. 

"I thought you'd be right glad, " said Sandy, somewhat dashed. "Ithought you wanted me to learn and get on. "

"So I do, " Cynthia admitted, "but I wanted to do it all for you, untilyou went away. "

"What's the difference?" argued poor Sandy. 

It was middle August before Marcia Lowe took her courage in her handsand went to see Miss Ann Walden. With city ways still assertingthemselves now and again in her thought, she had waited for Miss Waldento call, but, apparently, no such intention was in the mind of themistress of Stoneledge. 

"Perhaps after a bit she will write and invite me up there, " MarciaLowe then pondered. But no invitation came, and finally the littledoctor's temper rose. 

"Very well, " she concluded, "I'll go to her and have it out. I'm not abit afraid, and, besides, Uncle Theodore's business is too important todelay any longer. She doesn't know, but she _must_ know. "

So upon a fine afternoon Marcia Lowe set forth. Grim determinationmade her face stern, and she looked older than she really was. Whenshe passed the Morleys' cabin she smiled up at Mary, who was standingnear by, but the amiable mistress ran in and slammed the door upon thepasserby. A little farther on she came to Andrew Townley's home andshe paused there to speak to the old man sunning himself by the doorway. 

"You certainly do favour your uncle, Miss Marching, " Andrew mumbled; hehad heard the stranger's claim of relationship and trustingly acceptedit; but her name was too much for him. 

"Since you come I git to thinking more and more of Parson Starr. Hewas the pleasantest thing that ever happened to us-all. "

"Oh! thank you, Mr. Townley!"

So lonely and homesick was the little doctor that any word offriendliness and good-will drew the tears to her eyes. They talked alittle more of Theodore Starr and then the walk to Stoneledge wascontinued. 

Marcia Lowe had never seen any of the family except from a distance, and she dreaded, more than she cared to own, the meeting now. Stillshe had come to set right, as far as in her lay, a bitter wrong andinjustice, and she was not one to spare herself. 

Her advance had been watched ever since she left Andrew Townley'scabin, but in reply to her timid knock on the front door, Lily Ivyresponded with such an air of polite surprise that no one could havesuspected her of deceit. 

"Certainly, ma'am, Miss Ann is to home. She am receiving in thelibr'y. Rest your umbril' on the table, ma'am, and take a char. I'llgo and 'nounce you to Miss Ann. "

Left alone, Marcia did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. The brave attempt at grand manner in the half-ruined house was pitifulas well as amusing. 

"This way, ma'am. My mistress done say she'll receive you in thelibr'y. "

And there, in solemn state, sat the mistress of the Great House. She, too, had had time to prepare for the meeting, and she was sittinggauntly by the west window awaiting her guest. 

"It was right kind of you to overlook my neglect, " Miss Walden began, pointing to a low chair near her own, "but I never leave home and I aman old woman. "

The soft drawl did not utterly hide the tone of reflection on thecaller's audacity in presuming to enter a home where she was not wanted. 

The window was almost covered by a honeysuckle vine and a tall yellowrose bush; the afternoon breeze came into the room heavy with the rare, spicy fragrance, and after a moment's resentment at the measuredwelcome, Marcia said cheerfully:

"You see--I had to come, Miss Walden. I've only waited until I couldbecome less a shock to you. You believe I _am_ Theodore Starr's niece, do you not? I know there are all sorts of silly ideas floating aroundconcerning me, but I need not prove my identity to you, need I?"

The winning charm of the plain little visitor only served to brace MissWalden to greater sternness. 

"I have no doubt about you. You are very like your uncle, TheodoreStarr. "

"Then let me tell you what I must, quickly. It is very hard for me tosay; the hardest thing I ever had to do--but I must do it!"

Ann Walden sank back in her stiff armchair. 

"Go on, " she said, and her eyes fastened themselves on the visitor. She wanted to look away, but she could not. She was more alive andalert than she had been in many a year--but the reawakening was painful. 

"I only knew--the truth after mother died. I found a letter among herthings. Why she acted as she did I can never know, for she was a goodwoman, Miss Walden, and a just one in everything else. You may notunderstand; we New Englanders are said to love money, but we must haveit clean. I am sure mother meant nothing dishonest--we had our ownlittle income from my father and--the other was not used to anyextent--I have made it all up. "

"I--do not understand you!"

This was partly true, but the suffering woman knew enough to guide herand put her on the defence. 

"There was a will made before my uncle came here--in that he lefteverything to mother and me in case of his death, but the letterchanged all that--he wanted you to have the money!"

"Your mother was quite right!" the sternness was over-powering now;"the will was the only thing to carry out. I could not possibly acceptany money from Theodore Starr nor his people. "

For a moment Marcia Lowe felt the shrinking a less confident personfeels in the presence of one in full command of the situation. Shepaused and trembled, but in a moment her sense of right anddetermination came to her aid. Her eyes flashed, and with some spiritshe said:

"You are only speaking for yourself now. "

"For whom else is there to speak?"

"The child!"

Had Marcia dealt Ann Walden a physical blow the result could not havebeen different. Horrified and appalled, the older woman gasped:

"What child?"

"My uncle's and your sister's! Miss Walden, you could not expect me tobelieve the story that the people tell around here. You perhaps thinkyour sister was not married to my uncle--but I trust him. I think youand I, no matter what has passed, owe it to this little girl to do thebest we can for her. I have left my home to help; I have no onebesides her in the world--please consider this and be forgiving andgenerous. Oh! what is the matter?"

For Ann Walden had risen and stood facing Marcia with such tremblinganger that the younger woman quailed. 

"I wish you to leave my house!"--the words came through clenchedteeth--"leave it and never return. "

"If you resist me in this way, " anger met anger now, "I will have toconsult a lawyer. I mean to carry out my uncle's desires; I will notbe party to any fraud where his child is concerned. I hoped that youand I might do this together for her--but if I have to do it alone I amprepared to do so. I have brought the letter I found among my mother'sthings--may I read it to you?"

"No!" Ann Walden stared blankly at the firm face almost on a levelwith her own, for Marcia Lowe had risen also. 

"You--you cannot forgive us for the long silence? But at least do methis justice: I came when I could--as soon as possible. I was ill--oh!Miss Walden can you not understand how hard this is for me to do?Think how I must put my own mother at your mercy--my own, dear mother!"

Only one thought held Ann Walden--would her visitor never go? The fewmoments were like agonized hours; the shock she had received had beenso fearful that for a moment she was stunned, and before the truesignificance overwhelmed her she must be alone!

"I--have nothing to forgive. You and yours, Miss Lowe, have nothing todo with me and mine--you must indeed--go! I cannot talk of--the pastto you. You--have made a great mistake--a fearful mistake. My sisterhas--has nothing----"

The stern young eyes compelled silence. 

"I--I wish you would let me help you--for the love you once had forUncle Theodore, " said Marcia Lowe; "you must have forgiven your sisterwhen she told you; can you not forgive him?"

"Stop! You do not know what you are talking about----" Vainly, almostroughly, the older woman strove to push the knife away that theruthless, misunderstanding young hands were plunging deeper and deeperinto the suddenly opened wound. 

"Oh! yes, Miss Walden, I know--here's the letter!"

She held it out frankly as if it must, at least, be the tie to bindthem. 

"I spoke perhaps too quickly, too unexpectedly; but it is as hard forme as it is for you. I thought you would know that. I could not talkof little things when this big thing lay between us. It is our--duty. "

Pleadingly, pitifully, the words were spoken, but they did not move thelistener. Hurriedly, as if all but spent, Ann Walden panted:

"I reckon it is because you are young you cannot understand howimpossible it is for you and me to--be friends. You must forgiveme--and you must go!"

"But the money!"

"What money?" Something bitterer and crueller than the money had takenthe memory of that away. 

"Uncle Theodore's money. You see it is not mine--neither you nor Ishould keep it from Uncle Theodore's----"

"Oh! go, go; I cannot talk to you now. I will see you again--someother day--go!"

At last the look in Ann Walden's face attracted and held Marcia Lowe'smercy. She forgot her own trouble and mission; her impetuosity diedbefore the dumb misery of the woman near her. Realizing that she couldgain nothing more at present by staying, she placed the letter upon thetable as she passed out of the room and the house. 

For a few moments Ann Walden stood and looked at the vacant spot whencethe blow had come. The restraint she had put upon herself in MarciaLowe's presence faded gradually; but presently a sensation of faintnesswarned the awakening senses of self-preservation. Slowly she reachedfor the letter which lay near--no one must ever see that! She wouldnot read it, but it must be destroyed. And even as she argued, AnnWalden's hot, keen eyes were scanning the pages that unconsciously shehad taken from the envelope. 

The date recalled to her the time and place--it had been written thatsummer when Theodore Starr had gone to the plague-stricken people backin the hills; after he had told her they, he and she, could nevermarry; that it had all been a mistake. How deadly kind he had been;how grieved and--honest! Yes, that was it; he had seemed so honestthat the woman who listened and from whose life he was taking the onlybeautiful thing that had ever been purely her own, struggled to hideher suffering, and even in that humiliating hour had sought to helphim. But--if what had been said were true, Theodore Starr had not beenhonest with her; even that comfort was to be dashed from her after allthese years. She remembered that he had said that while he lived hewould always honour her, but that love had overcome him and conqueredhim. Queenie had always seemed a child to him, he had told her, untilthe coming of Hertford, and the sudden unfolding of the child into thewoman. He could no longer conceal the truth--in his concealment dangerlay for them all, and his life's work as well. When he came back--theywould all understand each other better! But he had not come back andthen, when she had discovered poor Queenie's state, it was for Starr aswell as herself that she sternly followed the course she had. Shestruck a blow for him who no longer could speak for himself--for he haddied among his people. 

"I loved him better than life, " those were the words Ann Walden hadspoken to her sister in that very room twelve years ago. The airseemed ringing with them still; "loved him as you never could have; buthe loved you; he told me so, and because of my love for him--I hid whatI felt. I could have died to make him happy, but you--why, you wereanother man's idle fancy while you lured Theodore Starr to his doom. The only thing you have left me for comfort and solace is this: I cannow keep his dear, pure memory for my own, and love it to the day of mydeath. "

Ann Walden looked quickly toward the chimney-place. There Queenie hadstood shrinking before her like a little guilty ghost. She seemed tobe standing there still listening to the truth, and avenging herself atlast. 

"Hertford is the father of your unborn child. You----"

And then it was that Queenie had fallen! had hit her head against theandirons and was never again to suffer sanely. After that there werethe dreary weeks when the changed girl had paced the upper balcony withher poor, vacant face set toward the hills. The pitiful story of herweak lungs was started, the journey to the far away sanatorium, whichreally ended in the cabin of a one-time slave of the family twentymiles away! The hideous secret; the journeys by night and that lastterrible scene when the blank mind refused to interpret the agony ofthe riven body and the wild screams and moans rang through the cabinchamber. Alone, the old black woman and Ann Walden had witnessed thestruggle of life and death, which ended in the birth of Cynthia and therelease of Queenie Walden. 

The four following years were nightmares of torture to Ann Walden. After bringing her sister's body home from the supposed sanatorium shelived a double life. As often as she dared she went to that cabin inthe far woods. She carried clothes and food to her old servant and thelittle secreted child. She watched with fear-filled eyes the baby'sdevelopment, and to her great relief she knew at last that no mark ofmental evil had touched her! Then, when the old black woman died shebrought the baby thing home; had explained it according to herknowledge of the people; they would believe what she told them--butthis stranger who had left the letter--she had not been deceived forone moment!

The letter! While she had been reliving the past the words wereentering her consciousness. What she knew she passed unheedingly; whatshe was yet to know rose as if to strike her by its force. 

"I had believed that love, " so Starr had written to his sister, "as menknow it, was not for me; my work, my joy in the service had alwaysseemed my recompense. I had asked Ann Walden to marry me because Ifelt sure of myself, and in this lonely place I needed thecompanionship, the wisdom and the social position her presence wouldgive to this great work of lifting up those worthy of recognition. Then came the day when I saw the little sister--Ann Walden's and mine, for we had always called her that--a woman! She cast her childhood offlike a disguise--I saw another man look at her and I saw her look athim! Something was born in me then after all the slow, sombreyears--and I wanted--love! I think a madness overcame me, for, blindedand almost beside myself--I spoke to her--that child-woman, and toldher how it was with me. She is the sort that wins your heart secretsby a glance of her tender eyes. And then----" Then came sharp words;disconnected and flashing like flame; but Ann Walden read on while herbrain beat and ached. 

"It was I she loved. I had aroused her--she saw only one man in theworld--me!

"She lay in my arms--I kissed her. 

"I took her with me on a long drive through the mountains--there was adying woman and my dear love carried the poor soul unto the parting ofthe ways with such divine tenderness as I had never before beheld. Shesang and almost played with her until the sad creature forgot her deathpangs. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw--that dying hour wasperhaps the only joyous hour the woman ever had known--and mysun-touched darling gave it to her!

"We were married on our way home. I wanted to speak at once, butQueenie pleaded. She did not wish, just in her own first moment ofjoy, to hurt the sister who was mother to her as well as sister. Ilistened, but I realized that my child-wife was afraid! That was it. With all her brave, splendid characteristics, Ann Walden is one to callforth fear. I felt myself shrinking hourly from confession. She isall judge; she can be just, but she cannot, I think, be merciful. Hersit is to carry out the law, not sympathize with those who fall underthe law. She makes cowards of us all! She is too detached to reachhumanity, or for humanity, erring, sinning humanity, to reach her. 

"The call came--I had to come to the sick and dying. I made half peacewith myself by telling Ann Walden that I could not carry out ourcompact. I told her, what is the hardest thing for any man to tell awoman--that I did not love her. I could not love her! and that it washer sister I loved. I meant to explain everything later and confess--Iexpected to be back in a day or so--but I am here still and the chancesare I must stay on for a long time, and I may lose my life; conditionsare terrible, and only once a week a doctor comes!

"She, Ann Walden, is not the hard judge alone. I must not give you awrong impression. When I told her, she shielded me against myself;would not let me suffer as I should--she excused me. She, to excuseme! But if anything happens to me--I want all my money to go to AnnWalden. By this act she will understand my trust in her and, acceptingit, she will do for Queenie what otherwise she could not do--and do itmore wisely than my darling could for herself. It must be the commontie, this little fortune. 

"I am feeling very ill. 

"I fear--my time--has come!

"I recall--there was no marriage certificate, but the service wasperformed by----"

Ann Walden dropped the blurred sheet and steadied herself against thewindow. Evidently Theodore Starr had forgotten the name, or perhapsthe deadly dizziness of the disease had overcome him. It did notmatter. Ann Walden, like Marcia Lowe, had no doubts--but his sisterevidently had had, and suddenly a bitter hatred filled Ann Walden'ssoul toward the dead woman she had never known. 

"She who should have known him best, " Ann Walden's thoughts ranburningly on--"she to doubt him and let all the years of injustice goon!"

And then the eyes of the tormented woman turned fearfully toward thefar side of the room. The late afternoon was turning into twilight andthe corner by the chimney was dim and full of shadow. 

"And I--who should have trusted Queenie--I who knew her best of all--Ilet her suffer----"

The wraith by the hearth had her full revenge at that hour, for AnnWalden bowed beneath the memories that crowded upon her; the vivid, torturing memories. That last night--when the moans and calls of thedumb mind strove to express the agony of the poor body! The solemnhour when God entrusted a living soul to a mother incapable ofrealizing anything but the mortal pangs that were costing her her life!

The child dishonoured, shamed and hidden because of--misunderstanding. Humbly Ann Walden confessed that Theodore Starr's sister was no more toblame than she herself. 

Outside a sudden shower had come over Lost Mountain; the room in whichAnn Walden stood became dark and still, then a sharp crash shook thehouse--something white fell upon the hearth; ashes, long dead asheswere blown hither and yon by a rising wind. With a wild cry of--"MyGod!" Ann Walden sank in a chair. Wornout nerves could stand no more. 

When she recovered consciousness she was lying upon the old horsehairsofa in the library. Ivy had gone on an errand, but Cynthia stood overher and the girl's face shocked the reviving woman into alertness. Familiarity had dulled her in the past, but now she saw the expressionand outline of Theodore Starr's features bending near her. 

"Oh!" she moaned shudderingly. "Oh! oh!"

"Aunt Ann, it is little Cyn! The tree by the smoke-house was struck, but we-all are safe. "

"I must be alone!" Then gropingly and tremblingly Ann Walden got uponher feet. 

"The letter, " she panted, "the letter. "

"Here it is--I found it on the floor where you fell. "

At the time Cynthia was too distressed to attach any importance to thematter, but she recalled the incident later. 

"Yes, yes!" Ann Walden gripped the closely written sheets; "and nowI--I want to be alone!"

CHAPTER IV

Sandy Morley came out of his shed and turned his bruised and achingface to Lost Mountain. It was very early, and the first touch of a redmorn was turning the mists on the highest peak to flaming films offeathery lightness. 

There had been a desperate quarrel in the Morley cabin the nightbefore, and Sandy, defending his father for the first time in his lifeagainst the assault of Mary, had reaped the results of the woman'soutraged surprise and resentment. 

"You!" she had shrieked, rushing at him; "you, taking on the man-trick, are you? Then----" and the heavy blow dealt him carried Sandy to thefloor by its force. Later he crept to his shelter and suffered thegrowing pangs of maturity. The words of Mary had roused him more thanthe hurt she had inflicted. No longer could he submit--why? All theyears he had borne the shame and degradation, but of a sudden somethingrose up within him that rebelled and defied. He no longer hated as hehad in his first impotent childish heat; he seemed now to be a new andchanged creature looking on with surprise and abhorrence at thesuffering of some one over whom he had charge and for whom he wasresponsible. The some one was Sandy Morley, but who was this strangeand suddenly evolved guardian who rose supreme over conditions anddemanded justice for the hurt boy lying on the straw mattress in thewretched outhouse?

All night, sleeping only at intervals, Sandy Morley strove tounderstand. Morning found him still confused and tormented. He wentoutside and with aching eyes looked upon the cloud. Presently, as ifordered by a supreme artist, the rosy films parted majestically andLost Mountain, stern and grim, stood clearly defined! Just then abird-note broke the mystic stillness; it filled The Hollow withtriumphant joy--it became part of the tumult of Sandy's soul compellingthe discord to lose itself in harmony. 

"I must go away!" Sandy murmured as if in prayer. "I must go away!"The new man into which he was merging felt its way cautiously throughthe brightening prospect. "I must go away, now. "

That was it. The years of preparation were past. Little or much, hemust take his savings and go forth! For a moment a soul lonelinesspossessed him. 

"Where?" he faltered in that rosy quiet that was moved and stirred bythe bird-song. "Where?" There was only one place on earth to himbeyond his mountain home--he must go to that state which recognized sogenerously the yearning for knowledge he must go to Massachusetts! Butnow that the hour had arrived he found his day-dreamings of the pastwere as vague and unreliable as guides as his idea of heaven, thatstate of mind which Marcia Lowe always insisted was here and now, ornowhere at all!

Well, he would go to the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady and get a more conciseconception of heaven and Massachusetts, if possible. 

Sandy turned his bruised face to earth as he reached this decision;like a condemned man on his last earthly day, he set about the doing ofthe unimportant but necessary duties that lay between the dawn and thenight. With no joy did Sandy Morley anticipate his great change. Heonly realized the "call, " and in a subtle, compelling way he felthimself driven by forces, quite beyond his control, to bear himselfbravely. 

He filled the rusty pail with water from the spring down by the Branch;he brought wood and lighted a fire on the ashy hearth before which, thenight before, the quarrel had waged. Having finished the homely taskshe gathered some scraps of ash cakes and bacon together and made forhimself a breakfast, which he washed down with some thin, sourbuttermilk. After this he went to his shed and arrayed himself in asuit of clothes, old but decent, that some one at The Forge hadcharitably given him; then, packing a basket with some luscious latepeas and berries that he had been fostering for weeks in a tiny gardenpatch back of the cabin, he started out on his last day's journey onthe hills for many and many a year. He had thought it out clearlywhile he was performing his tasks. He would bargain and sell; he woulddraw Miss Lowe out as to particulars of direction, cost and details; hewould bid her good-bye--she a stranger who had been so kind to him! Hewould miss her teaching and guidance; miss her strange inspiration ofjoyousness and courage. After leaving Trouble Neck he must see CynthiaWalden and tell her that the great hour had come! Then there was to bethe final scene. He was going to ask his father to go away with him!The quarrel of the night before had decided him. Together he and hisfather might make a place for themselves beyond the touch of Mary andthe sound of her terrible voice. Tenderly and with a beating heartSandy recalled the old, old days--the days when Martin sang, and prayedhis wonderful prayers to a little happy child. Yes, they would go awaytogether and then nothing would be quite so hard or impossible. 

Thus arranged, Sandy began his day. He sold his basketful at the firsthouse--a place five miles away where some strange artist-folks wereboarding. Sandy got a great deal of money there, for not only did themistress of the house pay him well, but a man and woman gave him adollar for posing for them while they sketched him. Reaching TroubleNeck, Sandy met his first setback. Miss Lowe was away; the littlecabin was closed and on the door was pinned a scrap of paper whichconfided to any chance visitor that the owner would be gone for severaldays. Marcia Lowe had set out for that far place among the hills whereher uncle's body had been laid years before. She had gone to make itbeautiful, when she located it, and the task was to take longer thanshe knew. 

Sandy sat down upon the doorstep dejected and disappointed. He haddepended more than he knew upon what he felt sure the little doctorcould give him, and yet, not for a moment, did he contemplate waitingfor her return--his order had been given. As his great-grandfather hadtaken up arms unquestioningly long ago, so Sandy now responded to thislater command. He must go that night!

After resting for a few moments and struggling against the drearinessthat was spreading through his thought he roused and set forth for theWalden place. Having no legitimate business at the back door ofStoneledge, the boy had no intention of braving old Ivy's sombre stareor the chance meeting with the mistress of the Great House, but therewere other ways of communicating with Cynthia besides the back door andthe vicarious personalities of those who ruled over her. Youth has itsown methods of telegraphy, and the hills people are master hands atsecrecy. There was a certain bird-note for which Sandy was famous: alow but shrill pipe that had startled old Ivy more than once and wasnearly always successful in causing Cynthia to materialize in due time. So Sandy, from the shelter of trees back of the Stoneledge smoke-house, gave his peculiar and penetrating call. A second time he gave it andthen Ivy issued forth and, cocking her weird old head on one side, listened. A long silence followed. The hot afternoon palpitated andthrobbed in The Hollow, but the hidden bird did not break it by anothercall. At last it became evident that Cynthia was beyond the reach ofher slave's desires, and so poor Sandy gathered together his flaggingstrength and spirits and turned toward home with the forlorn hope thathe might meet Cynthia on the way there. Now that the parting time hadcome he knew that the girl was his only real friend on earth in thesense that youth knows a friend. They were near each other, though sofar apart. They spoke a common tongue and there were hours when thegirl of the Great House and Sandy of the cabin reached across the gulfof tradition and class distinction and opened their souls to eachother. During such moments Cynthia had awakened and called forthSandy's dormant imagination. Through Cynthia he had been shown thebeauty of the flowers; been taught the note of the birds and the thrillof life under winter's cold and hard wing. Poverty sharpened thesenses of The Hollow people alike in hovel and great house; it droveMiss Ann and Cynthia into close quarters with Ivy and her weirdsuperstitions; it drove Sandy and his kind into dangerous contact witheach other, for behind closed doors and in the semi-darkness of theone-windowed cabins evil traits grew apace and the cold and the poorfood were fuel for passion and hate. 

But no little enchantress met lonely Sandy on his homeward way. 

"I reckon I must--go without!" he muttered with something much like asob in his voice. Not even then did he dream of procrastinating. Hewas hungry and weary and when he reached the cabin he paused to eatagain before going to the rock with his day's earnings. Mary, Molly, and Martin were absent, but that was no new thing. Sandy meant to hidehis money, come back and speak to his father and then, by the dark ofthe moon, start out either with Martin or alone. Grimly the young, tired face set into stern lines; a paleness dimmed his freckles and afever brightened his eyes, but the heat in his blood, now at the day'send, acted like a stimulant to his thoughts. No longer did he fear ordoubt--he had passed that stage and, like a warrior reinforced andexhilarated, he began to whistle confidently and almost joyously. Hemeant to give Mary her share of his profits, but he would leave them inthe box beside the stone that so long had hid his secret. 

Over the Branch and up the hill to the woods went Sandy with anuplifted expression on his poor, bruised face and the dignity of hisclothing adding a strange touch of age to him. Near the sacred spot hepaused and the tune died on his lips. Some one or some thing wasstirring just beyond, and, of a sudden, fear and past doubt drove theblood from his heart. His only thought was of Molly! All the years, perhaps, she had deceived and betrayed him. He had, like a coward, failed to count his money; to guard it as he should!

Creeping forward on hands and knees he made his way silently throughthe bushes. He knew the trick of the beasts; knew how to pad theunderbrush beneath his hands before he trusted the weight of his bodyto it. When within a few feet of the spot whence the sound of movingcame, Sandy started up and dashed with one bound into the open. Hishands were spread wide with eagerness to grip that which had betrayedhim, and so he came upon--Cynthia Walden! He fell back panting, whenhis brain, at last, interpreted for him what he saw. The girl sat withthe tin box of money in her lap; the overturned stone beside her andthe last rays of the hot sun filtering through the dogwood trees andpines upon her sweet, pale beauty. By a sharp trick of memory Sandyrecalled how the dogwood blossoms one spring long past had looked likestars under the dark pines and now he thought that Cynthia's face waslike the pale, starry blossoms. He was always to remember her so when, in the hard years on before, she was to come to him in fancy andlonging. A pure girl-face, radiant with hope and bravery, touched, just then, with startled fear which faded into laughing triumph as sherecognized Sandy. 

"You thought it was--Molly?" she whispered, holding her hands claspedover the box in her lap. "So did I. Once I found her here--found herhunting under one rock after another. I gave her a lick on the back Ireckon she has always remembered. " The slow, sweet laugh rippledout--"Molly is mighty afraid of me. "

Then Sandy managed to command his thought and motions. He stepped toCynthia and knelt beside her. 

"I am going away, " he said softly. 

"Yes, I know. When?"

"To-night. "

"To-night?" Fourteen and twelve have no perspective--everything isfinal and vital to them. The past has been but a witchery ofpreparation in a fairy tale of wonder and delight; the actualexperience of action found them both unfitted for the ordeal, but ineach boy and girl is the potential man and woman, and Sandy and Cynthiamet the present moment characteristically. 

"I dreamed two dreams, " said the girl with a shade of mysticism in hertones. "Once I saw you going down The Way, Sandy, with the look onyour face that you now have. I stood by the big pine just where thetrail ends in The Way, and watched you. Then I dreamed last night thatI stood by the big pine again and you were coming up The Way a-wavingto me like you knew I would be there. There was a look on your face--anew look--but I knew it, for I've seen it before in the SignificantRoom. " Cynthia paused, for the question in Sandy's eyes held her. 

"You know my story?" she said with her delicious laugh thrilling herlistener; "the story part of my life?"

"Oh!" It came to Sandy then, in this strained, prosaic moment, thememory of Cynthia's fancy to set her little world in the frame of her"Pilgrim's Progress, " the only book of fiction free to her. "Oh! yes, now I remember. "

"Sandy, all these years I have tried and tried to make you fit in--butyou wouldn't until--until last night. When it was right dark and stilland everybody was sleeping, I went down into the old library--that'swhere Aunt Ann had the queer spell the day Miss Lowe came--the room isall dirty and full of ashes, for the chimney fell that afternoon; butright beside the fireplace there is an empty space on the wall thatI've always saved for you!"

Cynthia had forgot the present in her fantastic play and she held Sandyas she always had before by the trick of her fascination. 

"Yes, " he murmured; "there is your mother's picture and the oldgeneral's and the frame that holds your father's portrait--the fatherthat no one knows about but you--and now--am I hanging in theSignificant Room?"

Sandy was all boy now; the strange new dignity fell wearily fromhim--he was playing, after a hard lesson, with little Cyn. 

"And what am I?" he asked, "what have you made me?"

"Oh! I did not make you, Sandy. You just were! The moonlight wasstreaming in through the window where the roses and honeysuckle are--itwas a leafy moonlight and all ripply like dancing water. I was notafraid--I went right boldly up to--your picture, Sandy, and I knew youat once. You know in the Significant Room of my book it says there wasa man in a cage; the man and his dream; and the man that cut his waythrough his enemies--the biggest of them all! But, oh! Sandy, mightyplain and fine I saw you like you were all three of the book folks. You were Sandy of the cage--and the cage was Lost Hollow! You wereSandy with your dream of helping us-all. Me, the po' lil' white trashin Crothers' factory--everybody! Then you were Sandy cutting your waythrough your enemies like the Hertfords are to your family; I heardAunt Ann telling Ivy--and then right sudden I saw you hanging up in agold frame with the ripply moonlight shining on you---- The Biggest ofThem All!"

Sandy's eyes were brilliant and glittering; his breath came quick andhard, and to steady himself he whispered:

"I am going away--to-night!"

The vision vanished and Cynthia felt two large tears roll down hercheeks. They left no sorry stains upon the pale smoothness of thegirl's skin; Cynthia's eyes could always hold a smile even when dimmed;her eyes were gray with blue tints and her straight, thick hair was thedull gold that caught and held light and shade. Some day she was goingto be very handsome in an original and peculiar fashion, and Sandyunconsciously caught a glimpse of it now, and it disturbed him. 

"I am going--to-night. I wonder if there is enough?"

He glanced at the box. "I have never counted it. "

"Never counted it? I have counted it every week. That's because I amI, and you are you, Sandy. There's over thirty dollars. "

At this Sandy gasped. 

"I--reckon it will take me to Massachusetts, " he said. 

"I reckon it will take you to the world's end, " Cynthia, the mysticexclaimed, "and back again!"

"Back again!" Sandy's imagination could not stretch past a certainlimit. 

"But you are coming back, Sandy?" A startled fear crept into thegirl's eyes; "you promised!"

"I shall come back--yes!"

"Let us count the money together, Sandy. "

Dishevelled dark head and smooth bright one bent close in the dimminglight. There was a far-distant rumble of thunder, but neither heededit; showers were almost daily occurrences, and excitement andconcentration ran high. Suddenly Sandy started back and pointed to asmall roll of bills--three one-dollar bills they were--but Sandy hadnever put a piece of paper money in the box!

"That!" he whispered hoarsely; "how did that get here?"

Too late Cynthia saw her mistake. All the small savings and sacrificesof her life she had exchanged that very day at the post-office for thethree bills. Tod Greeley had picked out the cleanest and newest, andnow they had betrayed her. 

Sandy was on his feet at once, and a stern frown drew his browstogether; the bruise on his cheek stung as the blood rushed to it, andthen he waited. 

Presently Cynthia rose to her feet and from her slim height faced Sandyon the level--eye to eye. 

"I put it there!" defiance and pride touched the words, "it means asmuch to me as it does to you--the going away, I mean. I've thought itall out--you'll have to pay it back--pay it as I want it. "

Sandy's mind worked more slowly; gropingly he strove to understand. 

"How did you get it?" he asked relentlessly. 

Cynthia laughed a little. 

"Just scratches and pricks--it was great fun! I've been gathering thewool from the bushes under which the sheep go, for years and years;ever since you began to save, Sandy. Lily Ivy sold the wool to thedarkies--and I got Mr. Greeley to change the pennies--for bills. It isall mine, every bit!"

A mist rose to Sandy's eyes--it almost hid that pure flower-like faceshining under the dark trees. 

"You mustn't be mean, Sandy; besides, you are to pay it all back. "

"How?" That word was all Sandy could master for a sharp pain in histhroat drove all else he meant to say back. 

"Why, you are going to set me free--you must marry me!"

Like a child playing with fire Cynthia heedlessly spoke these words. They had no deeper significance to her than the lilt of a world-oldsong. Marriage was the end-all and consummation of her magic storiesand, in this case, it had simply been a trifle more difficult toconsider on account of the social difference between Sandy and her. However, that had been overcome by the wand of imagination. Sandywould evolve into something so peculiarly splendid that the chasm couldbe bridged!

The effect of Cynthia's words upon Sandy was tragic. He closed hiseyes in order that he might shut out the hurting power of her face andcommanding eyes--but between the lids and his vision the girl mockedhim--he could not escape her!

The night before his manhood had been stung to life by Mary's cruelty;it was fanned into live flame now by the childish tenderness of thisgirl so near to womanhood that the coming charm and sweetness glorifiedher. Then she touched him and a wave of delicious pain coursed throughhis body. 

"How did--this happen?" A finger lightly passed over the bruise on hischeek. He could not answer. 

"I know! But they couldn't hurt the you of you, Sandy. I see thebigness shining through everything. Why do you keep your eyes shut?"

Sandy opened his eyes desperately and saw only the child until eye meteye again, and then the vision of what Cynthia foretold shook him oncemore. 

"My head--spins, " he said vaguely; "the day's heat made it ache. "

"You will take my money, Sandy?"

"Yes. "

"And you will come back and--marry me?"

"I'll come back and--and----"

"Will you marry me, Sandy, like they do in books?"

"If--if--that is the best way, yes. "

"Oh! it always is! It's a mighty fine way, because then no onecan--make you do things. I shall make you do whatever I choose, Sandy--will you mind?"

"No. "

"You know in my book, Sandy, there is a Madam Bubble and I'm makingmyself like her. You can make yourself into anything, I reckon, Sandy, if you just _will_, and dream about it. Listen to me!" Cynthia hadSandy by the shoulders now in frank, playful mood. "I am tall andcomely--I looked up the word, and it says it means to be agreeable andgood-looking. Well, I'm good-looking--or I'm going to be. Then thebook says Madam Bubble speaks smoothly and smiles at the end of asentence. I've tried and tried and now I can smile that way. Look, Sandy!"

Again Sandy forced himself to fasten his eyes on the sweet, tendermouth. 

"I love to smile, Sandy. "

Suddenly the girl's gay tone changed; she came back to grim facts witha catch in her voice. 

"How I shall miss you, Sandy. The woods will be right empty--till youcome again! I shall make believe find you on the hills even when Iknow you are not here, but always I will be able to see you in theSignificant Room! I'm going to study and make myself fit for you--Ishall be right busy. I am going to ask Aunt Ann to let me learn of thelittle doctor. I shall study the books you have and--it won't seemlong, Sandy!"

The brave attempt at cheer, the tender renunciation in the soft voice, wrung Sandy's heart. 

"I'm sorry I hated the little doctor for teaching you, Sandy. Shehelped you--to--to come back quicker, only I did not know then. She'llhelp me now, I reckon, to be ready for you. Sandy, I just couldn't seeyou go down The Way! You stand here like you were going to stay onforever and I'll run down the trail. I won't look back once, Sandy, but--kiss me good-bye. "

It was the little Cyn of the past playful days who pleaded sopathetically--forgetting caste and dividing line. The little Cyn whohad always clung to her comrade when danger or fear threatened; butbehind the childish words rang the woman's alluring sweetness--thewoman little Cyn was some time to be. By a mighty effort Sandy Morleybent and kissed the pretty upturned mouth. The rough, unlovelyclothing could not disguise the dignity of the stiff, boyish form; thebluish bruise on his face grew darker as the hot blood surged throughit, but the clear, boyish eyes were frank and simple at last as the:

"Good-bye, Cynthia!" rang sharply. 

There was one look more, full of brave sorrow, then Cynthia turnedabruptly and ran like a wild thing of the woods into the shadow of thepines. 

Sandy stood and watched her, with his thin face twitching miserably, until the sound of her going died away; then he groaned and bent topick up the box of money that had lain unheeded while bigger things hadbeen conceived and born. Slowly, mechanically he counted the smallfortune to the last piece, then he placed two half dollars in the boxand left it where any one could easily find it. Poor Sandy was beyondsuffering now, or indeed beyond any sensation except that of dullaction. His head was aching excruciatingly; fever throbbed in his bodyand a heavy weariness overcame him. He would rest before he went tohis father!

Sinking to the ground he leaned against the tree under which Cynthiahad stood and, for a moment, lost consciousness. 

CHAPTER V

"So you've come home to be fed, eh?"

Martin Morley slunk into a chair and eyed the woman by the cook-stoveingratiatingly. 

"I sho' have, " he replied; "it smells like ash cakes, and I've broughta bucket of buttermilk from ole Mis' Walden's place. She certainly isa techersome woman but a powerful good manager. "

"Where's the buttermilk?"

"Outside the do'!"

"Run and fetch it, Molly. "

The child, glaring at Martin, sprang to do her mother's bidding and asshe passed Morley he seemed to note, for the first time in his life, her fantastic beauty. And then Morley stared after her--she lookedlike _his_ mother! With the thought a blush of shame rose to his thin, sallow face. 

His mother! Between his mother and him lay a black abyss. What righthad anything, holding part in that shadow, to look like his mother? Hearose and almost snatched from the child the pail she had brought in. 

"Hyar!" he cried, "let me take that, you're slopping it over the floor. Whar's yo' brother?"

With this Mary Morley turned from her task with hot, blazing face? Shehad been handsome once--but the fleeting beauty was gone. 

"Sho'! _whar's_ that blessed son of yours?" Mary screamed. "You bettergo and find out. Do you know what the brat has been doing all theseyears? Years, I say! While we-all have been slaving and starving he'sbeen saving up; cheating us-all out of his earnings. Eating us-all outof house and home while he--saved and glutted!"

Martin stared at the woman as if she were speaking a foreign language. 

"Who--tole yo?" he asked vaguely, hoping by the question to clarify themoment's confusion. 

"Molly, she don' keep her eye on him fo' years! It's under a stonebeyond the Branch--dollars and dollars while we-all done without. "

"Whar did he--get it?"

"He only gave us part of what he earned--he made us-all fools while hehid the rest. "

This was too bewildering for Martin and he looked helplessly at thegirl who had been informer. The bold little face of Molly confrontedhim with something like fear in it. 

"He'll sho' kill me!" she whined, "him and that--that Cynthia Walden. "

This latter betrayal was new to Mary Morley and she came forwardangrily. 

"None of your lying!" she commanded--"nobody's going to hurt you solong as you tell the truth. What has the Walden girl got to do withthe stolen money?"

"She watched it! She licked me right smart once because I--tried tofind out how much there was. She told me she'd kill me sho' if I leton and I ain't till to-day when ma said she'd send me down to MissLowe's to larn things if she only had money to buy me some shoes. Whyshould Sandy have that money and me no shoes?"

Why he yearned to lay the lash on the girl before him, Martin could nottell, but she filled him with savage anger. She looked so mean, sohard and--young! Then he tried to think it was Sandy with whom he wasangered. He had left the boy to his own devices, to be sure, but--hidden money and the Walden girl aroused a sudden hot fear in him. 

"You lie!" he cried in a tone that for many a day Mary, with hergrowing power over him, had not heard. "You-all lie; you're a lyinglot. I'll find the boy----" Martin reached up and took down a lashwhip which hung beneath an old rusted sword on the wall. "I'll findthe boy and the truth, and by heaven! the sneak and liar, whoever hemay be, will get a taste of this!" He snapped the lash sharply. 

Molly shrank from his path and Mary gazed after him in sullenamazement. Led by some intuition, Martin strode down the path leadingto the Branch and, just as he crossed the almost-dry stream bed, hesaw, on the hill opposite, Sandy coming toward him. The boy stopped ashe caught sight of his father and waited at the edge of the woods. Hisbrief rest had refreshed him and the cool evening breeze, bearing ashower in its keeping, calmed his aching head and feverish body. Martin noticed how white and haggard the boy looked and some instinctwarned him to hide the whip behind his back. When he reached Sandy thetwo stepped back to where a log lay across the path and upon thatMartin dropped, while Sandy braced against a tree. 

"Whar was yo' going?" asked Morley. 

"Home, Dad. I wanted to see you--and then----"

"Well----"

"I'm going away!"

"Going away?"

"Come, too, Dad! Come and let us fight it out together. She----" Theboy's eyes, haunted and fierce, turned toward the home place. "Shedon't belong to us or with us. I don't know how better to say it--butshe don't. She won't mind; no one will mind after the first. I've gotto go and--I want you! I've been saving and saving little by littlefor years--there's enough now and we can go to-night. Outbeyond--somewhere--Dad, there's something better for us than--this. Byand by we'll come back. We'll come and help----" and a sob choked thewords; "we'll come and help all Lost Hollow. Somehow I feel--called!"

Martin Morley stared at the boy before him as though he saw a ghost. And indeed a ghost of the grim past did confront him. He saw himselfas he once was ere his Inheritance was downed forever. He, too, hadwanted to break away; get out to the free chance and the new hope. 

"You can't do it!" he said in a faint voice to that ghost of himselfstanding opposite in the darkening shadows. "There's something asallus holds us-all from getting away. It began back there ingrandfather's day--it's settled on us-all like a death grip. "

Sandy listened as if already he was far and apart from all the sordid, little hampering things that made up the life of Lost Hollow. 

"What did--grandfather do?" he asked, like one who had no specialinterest in the matter. 

"It was my grandfather, he was the friend of Lansing Hertford. Theysaid he betrayed his friend--but they-all lied. First it was awhisper, then in your grandfather's time they-all spoke louder. Thelie took away the faith of men from us-all and--that ended it! The lieslinks low till some Morley raises his head and then it springs up andstrikes him down. "

"It will not strike me down!" Sandy, weak and forlorn, straightenedagainst the tree with the darkness almost blotting him from the eyesfastened tenderly on his face, spoke firmly. "I'll kill the liewhatever it was! What did they say, Dad?"

Never before had Sandy cared. He knew there was something lurking inthe past that caused his father to slink from the mountain people, caused the men and women to avoid and shun him, but it had alwaysexisted. It was part of Lost Hollow and the Morley fate. 

Then, alone with the last of his race, Martin Morley told the old storythat had sapped the vitality of his family. Such a small, mean thingit seemed to have downed the once good stock! But in a place wheretradition thrives on starvation, lack of ambition and misunderstanding, it had done its work. As Morley drawled the ancient wrong to light, ashe eased his soul of the burden and so shared it with his boy, his eyebrightened and he sat straighter upon the fallen log for--at itscompletion--Sandy laughed!

"It was this--er--way. In them days us-all and the Hertfords wasequals. The plantation lying off to the east of the old Hertford homeplace belonged to us-all"--many and many were the quarts of berries andbushels of nuts Sandy had gathered from there!--"but it slippedaway--it's all gone years past. My grandfather and Lansing Hertfordwas close friends--none closer. They fought and loved side by sidetill Hertford--he got some kind of government order to go to furrin'parts a mighty distance from Lost Hollow. Some time after he went mygrandfather followed on a pleasure trip--a pleasure trip, Sandy, thinkof that! He went away for pleasure! His pockets full of money and himright well fixed! On his travels he stopped and called on Hertford inthem furrin' parts and Hertford he gave to grandfather a mightyprecious bottle of stuff to bring back home to a big merchant downLynchburg way. What happened the Lord only knows, Sandy, but when themerchant opened the bottle there wasn't nothing but water in it! Noone ever spoke out in grandfather's day--they dassent. He was a mightyproud and upperty man, but a whisper and a nudge can do the work, andlittle by little grandfather was pushed down and out. In my father'stime they spoke louder--they don' said how grandfather had sold theprecious stuff before he came back; Lord, Sandy, I leave it to you, son, would he have come if he had done that low-down, mean trick?"

"No!" Sandy breathed the word like a hiss, and in the darkness and hisweakness he felt the poison of the lie stealing into his thought, buthe flung his head up proudly. "No! No!" he repeated clearly anddefiantly; "No!"

"But they-all never trusted none of us again. "

Sandy recalled his first visit to the Walden back door and his couragerose--they had learned to trust him even in Lost Hollow!

"Grandfather tried to rise up and failed. Father had his hope, but itwas killed; I strove, Sandy, I sho' did, God knows! but you see how ithas been with me. There's no use, son, we-all is damned!"

"I am--going to succeed!"

Sandy's voice struck through the gloom and stillness like a tangibleblow. Martin started and gave a nervous laugh. 

"Come home!" he said; "come home and bring your money with you. Itwill buy peace and pardon--them's better than any fool idees. And justremember this, Sandy Morley, we-all may be dastards and hard drinkersand what not, but we sho' don't desert women and children. They, downthere, belong to us, son, and I expect you and me belong to them!"

Martin rose hurriedly and dropped the whip in the underbrush. 

"Come on home, son!"

But Sandy did not move. 

"It's come with me or I go alone, Dad. "

The child was master of the man!

"You mean it? You mean you dare to disobey--me?"

"I'm going to--take my chance, Dad, out among--folks!"

"You--will--obey--me!" But even as the words were spoken, Martin felthow impotent they were. 

"It's good-bye, Dad?"

It was good-bye. Both man and boy realized it. The night closed themin and the protecting trees sheltered them for a moment more. 

"You po' little lad! you mean it?"

"Yes, Dad. Will you come?"

Martin turned one glance to where the light from his cabin door shone;then he groaned and said:

"No! God knows they do belong to me and I'm too old, too broken. Thecurse will get the best of you, boy, and you'll come trailing home. I'll be here--then! But----" And now Martin came closer and held himby the thin, trembling shoulders. 

"Grandfather never done it! It was one man's word agin another's andthe Hertfords have the luck--they allus had. Onct one of them comeback"--and here Morley came closer to Sandy--"it was back in ole MissAnn Walden's early days--he came back and something happened!" Thewhisper made Sandy creep with chill. 

"What?" he asked, hoarsely. 

"He done a mighty wrong to--Miss Ann's little sister, her that wascalled Queenie and looked it! We-all knew, but we-all stood by MissAnn, even such as me stood by her! it was the only thing we-all coulddo for her. He got away! Then that po' chile took to watching fromthe balcony for him who never come--and then she went away--and by andby--the baby come home!"

"The baby?"

Sandy trembled and grew faint. He had eaten little and the burdenbeing laid upon him was more than his strength could bear. 

"Cynthia--the lil' girl with the face of Queenie, her mother?"

"No! No!" What he feared and abhorred the boy could not tell, butevery instinct in him rose to do battle for the child--friend of hisstarved and empty life. 

"It's your part, son, to stand by and never let on! We-all have doneit; we-all took what Miss Ann said for gospel truth--and so must you!"

Then it was that Sandy laughed! The sound startled and shocked Martinand he almost reeled from before it, but strangely enough it seemed tobrighten the heavy darkness. 

"I don't believe it!" said Sandy between his bursts of laughter. "It'sa bad dream--we-all must wake up. "

"We can't fight them, Sandy!"

The poor legacy of hatred, wrong, loyalty, and despair was all thatMartin Morley had to offer his boy as a weapon in the coming fight. The uselessness and weakness of it struck Sandy even then as he stoodon the threshold of the new life. What did it matter? But it was thesmall thing, the old past that made up the shabby present of TheHollow. He was going to leave everything--even the old grudge--alreadythe wider thought called him and gave a touch of daring to his laugh. 

"Good-bye, Dad!"

And then Morley staggered toward Sandy and stretched his arms out tohim. There was one thing more he had to offer!

"I--I want to tell you 'bout--yo' mother, Sandy--and me! No one ain'tall bad; she was all good and yo' must lay hold o' the good. It willhelp if yo' can cling fast enough. "

Oddly enough Sandy found himself against his father's breast without asense of strangeness. Long years ago he had so lain in the strongarms--the recollection brought others in its wake; memories of safe, happy days--before Mary had come into their lives. 

"I was older then her!" Martin spoke as if confessing to one whodemanded the best and the truth at last. It was as though he felt thatwith the neglect and injustice he had of late shown the boy, there hadbeen the holding back of his just due. "Yo' mother came from TheForge, she left a good home for me because she believed in me--she wasterrible young and trusting and she didn't live to--find out! I wasold enough to be her father, and I tried. God help me! I tried, butit was the old curse and not even the love I had for her could keep meup. But while she lived--it was better. The cabin was clean and tidyand she always sang about her work. She only stopped singing towardthe last--when she got thinking about you she got solemner and stillerand then--you came! She--died the day after, and the blackness of ithas shut the sunlight out of my life ever since, Sandy. I ought tohave took my pay and made no fuss, and for a time I did. You and melived on in the cabin with a woman's hand to help at the pinch, and foryears I kept my head and yours above water. But when yo' are a man, son, you'll think kinder o' me than what yo' do to-day; a man's a man, and a lonely man is the worst of all--and so"--Martin's grizzly headwas pressed against Sandy's--"and so--Mary came! She didn't ask much;she only wanted to live along with us-all in the cabin, but----" Thedreary years seemed to spread before both man and boy in the silencewhich followed. 

"Good-bye, Sandy, good-bye!" Martin choked and held the boy off atarm's length. "Yo' great-grandfather's name was Sandford Morley. Igave you the name for good luck--maybe it--will help. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye--dear old Dad!"

The one-time trust and affection flooded the moment and place. Quitesimply and naturally they kissed and fell apart. 

"Yo' go first, lad--yo' ain't got nothing to take?" Sandy shook hishead. 

"No, Dad. Good-bye. The money will help me on. Some day I'm comingback, Dad, coming back to help! Wait for me, Dad, and hold tight forme--so I'll be glad. Dear, dear, old Dad!"

Then Sandy turned and set his face toward The Appointed Way. It hadbeen hard to see Cynthia flee from him, leaving him lonely andforsaken; but it was harder now to leave the sad, broken father in thedesolate blackness of night--and enter the new, hard life alone! Butwith never a backward look Sandford Morley went to meet his fate. 

Martin stood and listened until the last sound dropped into silence. Then he went back. It was pitchy dark when he reached the cabin. There were mutterings of thunder in the distance again, and the odourof scorched meal in the air. Mary, with Molly hanging to her, stood bythe rough table in the middle of the room. 

"Did you find him?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"And you----"

Martin turned and the look on his face silenced the woman. 

"That boy, " he said slowly, "belongs to me, do you understand? Keepyour tongue off him--your hands will never touch him again. He's mineand God Almighty's from now on. You've starve him and beat him for thelast time and now--never speak his name again. He's mine andGod's--and his mother's!"

Martin was spent. He dropped into a chair and, folding his arms uponthe back, bent his head upon them. 

Then Mary's wrath broke. 

"He's yours, is he?" she sneered, shaking her child off and stridingtoward the bowed figure--"he's yours and God's and his mother's! Hebelongs to a fine lot, doesn't he, the ungrateful little beast? AndI'm to keep my tongue off him, eh? Ain't I good enough for him and youand the high company you belong to?"

Resentment old and rankling rose fiercely. What ever she had been andwas, Mary clung to Morley faithfully according to her light and shewrithed under the sting of the implied insult hurled at her now. 

Morley did not move. A sense of desolation swept over him. He wasfollowing the trail of the lonely boy in the dark and the woman'sinfuriated words meant no more to him than the rumbling thunder. 

"Who do I and mine belong to?" the tense voice went on; "to the devil Isuppose! Well, then, Mart Morley, you listen to me now. Thischild"--she turned fiercely toward Molly--"is yours, mine and thedevil's. You're a lazy lot that left us to starve or live as we could, but the devil has taken a hand in the game, do you hear? I reckonhe'll see us through and no thanks to you! From now on you take whatyou can get and keep your mouth shut or--the devil and I will know why. "

And then Morley lifted his head. The look of misery on his pinchedface should have moved one to pity, but it did not move the heart ofMary Morley. 

"What do you mean?" he asked wonderingly. "I--I--didn't followall--you said. "

"And there's to be no questioning, " the voice had grown louder. "Noquestions--just take or leave what's offered; go or stay as you please, but if that brat of yours, God's and his mother's, ever shows his facenear me or mine--I'll"--she laughed hoarsely--"I'll make him adiscredit to you all! Come move up and eat the food I provided anddrink the sour milk that was given you!"

Morley rose unsteadily. He tried to speak and command the situationthat in some subtle way had escaped his control, but he felt bereft anddesperate. Now that Sandy was quite beyond recall, to whom could heturn? His strength and spirit were crushed and degraded--he moved upand sullenly took the plate and cup that were pushed toward him! Oncehe glanced at Molly. She leered at him over the edge of her mug andher eyes were hard and cruel. 

Martin Morley pushed the untouched food from him and strode to the doorof the cabin. The storm was coming up fast now. The lightning flashedand the thunder shook the house. Morley's heart ached for the boystruggling alone and defenceless through the night, but he was glad hewas gone! Whatever lay before of defeat or victory--he thanked Godthat the last of his race had had courage at least to make an attemptfor freedom. 

The house grew very quiet; Mary had taken Molly to the loft overhead, and presently Martin heard her deep breathing and the nestling of thelittle girl in the straw mattress. The storm passed at last and aboveLost Mountain a bright and glowing star showed through the partingclouds. 

Cautiously Martin whistled and then waited. Night after night this washis habit. When the others had departed he called Sandy's dog, fed itfrom the scraps he could gather, and comforted himself with thecompanionship of the faithful collie that was too wise to temptProvidence when Mary was around. 

Martin whistled a second time and then called softly: "Bob! oh--Bob!"

There was no response. Again the man spoke drawlingly and fondly:"Bob! oh, Bob!" Then he went to the shed near the cabin and looked in. That had been Sandy's bed-chamber since the rule of Mary had begun--howterribly empty and lonely it looked now! How afraid the boy must havebeen when at first he was driven from the home place to the desertedouthouse! He had never whimpered nor complained. "Poor little lad!"breathed Martin, and leaned against the doorway of the wretched room. There was the ragged mattress and the little nest where the slightboyish body had so often rested after the day's cheerless toil. On thewall were pinned two or three bright pictures that had drifted somehowto the barren place; there was a pitiful little frayed jacket hangingon a nail and a pair of sadly torn shoes in one corner. 

The objects caused Martin to groan as he beheld them. He suffered ashe had not suffered since Sandy's mother died in his arms! Like adrowning man he relived the years--the hard years when he cared for andloved the baby-child alone in the cabin. He recalled the boy's sunnyways and sweet confidence, until the Woman Mary entered their life. Hehad been miserable, his lower nature craved its own, and Mary came! Hehad accepted and he had lost his self-respect; everything! There wasnothing left; there would be nothing more until--the end came, unlessSandy succeeded. Just then the moon came over a bank of black cloudsand lit The Hollow. It shone full on Lost Mountain and into thedeserted shed where but lately Sandy had suffered and slept. 

Martin Morley dropped on his knees and turned his haggard, pain-rackedface upward. He had once been a religious man; had once been a leaderin the little church at The Forge before he gave up hope and ambition. His prayers had been the pride and boast of the mountainside, but thatwas long ago, and his lips with difficulty formed, now, the sacredwords. 

"God-a'mighty!" he breathed, "take care of that lil' boy out therealone on The Way. Don't fail him on the big road; keep him to the end!I ain't asking You to do anything more for me; I've give up; but he'sjust started forth! Watch him; keep him; don't let the sins of hisfathers or his enemies tech him. Amen!"

There was a note of command in the prayer. A demand for justice andprotection for one who could not defend himself. Having worded hisappeal, Martin rose stiffly from his knees and closed the door of theshed after him. 

He had done what he could; he must bear the agony and remorse silentlyfrom now on. The old laziness and indifference returned slowly as heretraced his steps, and when he entered the silent cabin again he wentnaturally to the crooked stairs leading up to the loft. The door wasclosed and locked! Mary had, in this final fashion, proclaimed herindependence. 

Martin made no effort to force his way or question the proceedings;with a weary sigh he looked about, then went quietly to an old settleby the hearth. Taking off his wet and ragged coat he rolled it up andplaced it for a pillow. Finally he stretched his aching body upon theimprovised bed and fell into a restless slumber. 

VI

The hot, breathless morning followed the storm through which Sandydeparted, and fell like a moist blanket over Lost Hollow. Even up atStoneledge the vapour rose and settled depressingly. Every door andwindow in the livable part of the house was set wide to any chancestirring of the dead air. Ann Walden in the sitting-room, old Lily Ivyin the kitchen, and the child Cynthia in the dim, shadowy library, inthe unlivable part of the house, were listless and indolent. Presentlythe black woman, having completed the preparations of vegetables forthe simple mid-day meal, came to the sitting-room door and contemplatedher mistress with respectful eyes. Ivy was fully seventy years old, but she was straight and strong as a woman of fifty and as keen andcapable. She had been carefully reared as a house servant in the daysof slavery, and she had followed the downward fortunes of the Waldenswith dignity and courage worthy a more glorious cause. Her spotlessbut much patched gown was almost covered by a huge white apron. Shewore a kerchief and a turban-like head covering. 

"Miss Ann, honey, a leak done sprung in the roof over the west chamberlas' night. The rain am permeated through the flo' and marked theceiling in de libr'y. "

Cynthia, lying on the horsehair sofa of the dim room across the hall, looked up and saw the new and ugly spot over her head. 

"Well, Ivy, shut the west chamber off from the rest of the house. Wehave far too much space to care for as it is. When I reconstructStoneledge it will be time enough to reopen the disused rooms. "

Ivy bowed her head complacently. It had always been the same since thewar. One room after another had been shut off until the wide hallsdividing the house, the living-room, dining-room, kitchen and threeupper bedrooms were all that were left for family use. 

"Yes, chile. " Then after a pause: "I don' hear how dat wretch, BlackJim, was stricken, by God-a'mighty's justice, on The Way, las' night. He was found plumb dead under a tree whar de lightnin' felled him. "

Miss Ann raised her spectacled eyes with something like interest. 

"We-all will be safer, " she said quietly. "A darky like Jim, who getsa twist in his head about freedom and license, is a mighty dangerouscreature. "

"Yes, chile, dat's plain truth. "

Cynthia held her breath. Sandy had been on The Way--what hadGod-a'mighty's justice done to him? Surely if any evil had befallenhim Ivy would know. By some intangible current the gossip and news ofthe hills travelled rapidly and more or less accurately. 

"Dat boy of Morley's has runned away from home!"

At this Ann Walden took off her spectacles and made no pretence ofindifference. 

"Run away?" she said. "I didn't know a Morley had spirit enough to dothat even with conditions as they must be along of that woman ofMartin's in the cabin. Where has he gone?"

"Nobody ain't knowing exactly--just gone! I expect he'll turn up againwhen his stomick done clutch him. Dat chile never done us-all no'commodation job, but he was too good to live up to that cabin in deHoller. If I knowed whar he done hide himself, I clar I'd fotch himsome victuals even if he _was_ sharp as a sarpint's tooth in a bargain. "

"If you hear of him, let me know, " Ann Walden said quietly; "he's toogood, as you say, to be left to that evil woman Martin lives with. I've had the boy on my mind for some time. He has the mark of crueltyand neglect; he' been mighty silent too, about it all--he resembles hisgrandfather. "

And now Cynthia breathed again freely and happily. A breath of airstole through the window and across the room--the atmosphere wasclearing. 

"Whar's lil' Miss?"

"Lying down across in the library. Go close the door softly, Ivy, andcome back. I have something to say to you about her. "

The child upon the sofa wished to be alone with herself, so she shuther eyes and pretended sleep when the lean, black hand reached into theroom and drew to the door. Cynthia wanted to think about Sandy; shewanted to follow him, in fancy, after her own fashion, and above allelse she wanted to be with him in the Significant Room. 

Once the door secured her from intrusion she arose from the sofa andlocked it quietly; then she set the window wider to the summer day. The casement was choked with the yellow rosebush and heavy honeysuckle;the fragrance was almost stifling, but Cynthia heeded it not. 

"Now, " she whispered, with the slow smile coming to her lips, "now, Sandy Morley, I'm going to hang your picture in its place!"

The large gray eyes fastened upon the empty space near the chimney, thespace where, when the afternoon was fair and clear, the western sunpoured its light through the tangle of vines at the window and fellfull upon it. 

"The man who cut his way through his enemies. " Cynthia knew her"Pilgrim's Progress" as many children know their nursery rhymes. Itwas her only guide to life, but she interpreted it for herself. "TheBiggest of Them All. " And then the girl laughed her rich, ripplinglaugh. 

It was Madam Bubble now who stood before the fireplace, a gentlecreature with little head bent forward in listening attitude and awaiting, pleading look in the fine eyes. A bit too tall and thin wasshe for grace, but Time would take care of that--and, fortunately, Cynthia was many-sided. The dull, monotonous life of Stoneledge hadretarded development. Never having mingled with children, she wasuntested and untried along certain lines. Poor, shabby Sandy Morleyhad been and was her only interpretation of youth as it had touched herpersonally--he and her ungoverned imagination had supplied the motivepower, so far, for the foundation of her emotions. 

"I--helped you!" she said softly to "The Biggest of Them All"--"I. Andwherever you are you will remember that. "

There was an old, cracked, dimmed mirror between the chimney-place andthe window, and tiptoeing to that, Cynthia viewed herself as if for thefirst time in her life. The image was strange to her; confusing andhalf fearsome. It was not the reflection of the awkward, thin CynthiaWalden that she saw; Cynthia of the long braids of hair and shortpatched gingham gown of irregular length--owing to many washings andshrinkings. It was the reflection of something Cynthia was to be someday who looked back at the questioning girl. Slowly the colour rose tothe pale face and the big eyes flinched. 

"Stand straighter!" commanded the inquisitor before the mirror. Theshoulders braced, but too long had the slender neck bent forward toobey the sudden exertion now. Cynthia would always carry that waitingpose!

The ugly checked gown next caught the critical eyes and the impotenthands pulled it down at the waist, while a sense of its unlovelinessbrought a quiver to the sensitive mouth. "Hateful!" was the verdict. 

Then with fumbling, unpractised hands Cynthia gathered her two longshining braids and bound them around her head--somewhere she had seenthe fashion, and a feminine instinct appropriated it. Next she steppedquietly to the window and broke off a deep yellow rose and a delicatetrailing bit of honeysuckle rich with bloom; these she wound withintuitive skill in her twisted braids, the rose nestled close to theleft ear. Thus adorned she tested the mirror again. Gone now was theugly gown; gone was the awkward pose--the face that smiled out at theyoung judge was a wonderful face with its secret promise of by and by. 

"Oh! you pretty honey-girl!" There was absolute detachment and lack ofvanity in the words. The woman-nature of Cynthia was simply givinghomage to a young creature worthy its admiration. "Oh! I want to kissyou and love you! I want you to kiss and love me!" And then thedenied craving for affection and fondling rose supreme. "I want tocuddle you, honey--you are mighty sweet!"

The slow smile touched the lips of the reflection--the dear, slow smileof Madam Bubble. 

Cynthia pressed close to the old mirror and laid her lips to thatalluring creature she was some time to be!

"Honey!" she whispered, "dear, pretty honey-girl!" The tears cloudedthe love-filled eyes; a sense of loneliness drove the rapture away, andthe hands fell limply. 

Going to the window, Cynthia knelt down and, resting her arms upon thesill, laid her pretty head upon them. 

She was never to be wholly a child again. Never was she to let herhair fall in the little-girl fashion. Something had happened to her, and tracing the something back she realized that it had been done whenSandy kissed her good-bye!

Vivid was the red now in the girl's face. Her South had brought thebloom forth early, and she was unprepared and unlearned in its demands. 

"I want--some one to love me!" No words formed the thought. "Iwant----" Then all the ties of her barren young life were reviewed andfound inadequate. Presently the yearning eyes rested upon the oldpainting of Queenie Walden. It was a miserable piece of work; anindefinite likeness, but it held the gaze and the fancy of the girlupon the floor. "I want--my mother!" The hunger and longing broughtfresh tears to the aching eyes. "Mother!" She had always known therelationship, and had always guarded it as a sacred secret. The floodof repression and denial came in full force now. 

"I want to know all!" That was the demand, and straightway Cynthiasprang to her feet and ran from the room. She was still running whenshe came into Ann Walden's presence. 

"What's the matter, Cynthia?"

"Aunt Ann, tell me about my father and mother!"

The sudden question, the sight of the flower-decked head, set AnnWalden into a trembling fit. Since the day of Marcia Lowe's call shehad never been the same. She slept badly, ate poorly, and fearedgreatly. Day after day she had expected the late visitor to return orsend a representative. When she heard that the stranger had gone awayshe breathed more freely for the respite, but dreaded the reason forthe going. She had passed through such torture as she had never knownor undergone before. Something, unsuspected, rose and reproved her;pride, self-esteem, and faith had perished when many readings of theletter had driven truth home. Finally nerves refused to suffer longerand a kind of revenge took its place. 

"Very well!" she had concluded desperately; "Queenie and I will keepthe child--at last! You and yours shall have no part in her or forher. "

Thus she had decided regarding Cynthia. She meant to break foreverwith Theodore Starr and all who were connected with him. She wouldresent, not only for herself, but for the poor sister who hadmistakenly, and for love of her, kept silence and left the memory ofStarr unclouded as the only gift she could give the woman they both hadwronged!

Yes, Ann Walden had thought it all out. When Marcia Lowe came againshe would tell her that she believed there had been no marriage! Thatwould end it. No proof could be found--did not Ann Walden know theshiftless mountain ways? Marcia Lowe would never press dishonour uponthem all--and the money was no lure to the proud, poverty-strickenwoman. She meant to revenge herself upon Theodore Starr by keepingCynthia even at the price of proclaiming the girl's dishonour toStarr's niece. 

From much thinking through wakeful nights and torturing days Ann Waldenhad evolved a very sincere hatred and bitter resentment. She almostbelieved that Starr had betrayed her sister, and poor Cynthia, who hadalways been a duty--not a joy--was to pay the penalty!

"Tell me about my father and mother!"

The strong young voice repeated the commanding words; the lovelyflower-twined head bent forward. 

There was no wise person to note and take warning of the strange lightin Ann Walden's eyes as she met the question put to her; it was, however, the look of insanity--the insanity which feeds uponhallucination; the kind that evolves from isolated repression and theabnormal introspection of the self-cultured. 

"When you are older, Cynthia. "

"No, now, Aunt Ann. I must know. My mother's picture hangs in thelibrary, but my father's is not there and no one ever speaks of myfather. "

How could one fling into the simple innocence demanding knowledge, thebare, bold truth? But Ann Walden, driven at bay, worn, embittered andtouched already by her doom, answered slowly:

"Your--father was--a bad man! that is why no one speaks of him; why hispicture does not hang near your mother's. "

"A bad man? What did he do, Aunt Ann?" A childish fear shookCynthia's face. Bad, to her, was such a crude, primitive thing; "washe bad like--like the men here who drink and beat their women?"

"Worse than that!"

"Worse, Aunt Ann? Did he--beat my mother?'"

The horror, instead of calming Ann Walden, spurred her on. 

"He--he killed her!"

"Killed her!" And with that Cynthia dropped beside her aunt and clungdesperately to her hand, which lay idle in her lap. "Oh! is--is--hedead? Can he come to hurt us?"

Then Ann Walden laughed such a laugh as Cynthia had never heard before, but with which she was to become familiar. 

"He's dead. He cannot hurt us any more. He did his worst--before youwere born. "

A sigh of relief escaped the girl as she listened and her tense facerelaxed. 

"But we would not touch his money, would we, Cynthia? nor have anythingto do with any kin of his, would we?"

"No, no, Aunt Ann. "

"Then----" and now Ann Walden bent close and whispered: "then havenothing to do with her--at Trouble Neck! She comes with money; with ahope of forgiveness--but we do not forgive such things, do we, Cynthia, and we Waldens cannot be bought?"

"No, no!"

"When you see her, tell her so! Tell her to keep away--we do notbelieve her; we do not want her!"

The flowers on the pretty girlish head were already wilted in the heatof the morning and something more vital and spiritual had faded anddrooped in Cynthia Walden's soul. She looked old and haggard as sherose up and drew a long breath like one who had drunk a deep draughttoo hastily. Even the yearning for love had departed--unless God weregood to her she would sink rapidly down, from now on, to the commonlevel. 

"I'll tell her, Aunt Ann, " she said nonchalantly. "I'm right glad youlet me know. " Then she wandered aimlessly back to the library and overto the fireplace. Dejected and shrinking, she raised her eyes humblyto her "Biggest of Them All" and deep in her soul sank the truth thatshe, Cynthia Walden, once so gay and proud, was not the equal of SandyMorley! If he were brave and fine enough he might help her from verypity--but if she were worthy, she must not permit him to do so. 

Then it was that the first wave of actual soul-loneliness enveloped thegirl, and when youth recognizes such desolation something overpowers itthat no older person can ever understand. 

And that very afternoon the great storm came that swept away so muchand opened the way to more. 

It was four o'clock on that same day that Liza Hope passed Stoneledgeon the way down to the store. Liza was always just getting over havinga baby or just about to have one and her condition was now of thelatter character. Poor, misshapen, down-trodden creature! Sheaccepted her fate indifferently, not because she was hard or bitter, but because she had never had a vision of anything else. 

She paused near the chicken house where old Lily Ivy was hovering overa belated brood whose erratic mother had mistaken the season of theyear. 

"Howdy, Ivy! You-all has a right smart lot of fowls--but ain't it amighty bad time to hatch?"

"Dis yere hen allus was a fool hen, " Ivy vouchsafed, "givin' troublean' agony to us-all. "

"Does you-all like her the best?"

This question brought Ivy to her feet with a stare. 

"The little doctor she done say as how we-all loves best thebaby-things what be right techersome. She be right, too, I reckon. Them babies o' mine what died, and po' lil' Sammy what ain't clear inhis mind, is mighty nigh to me. I ain't never thought 'bout sich tillshe cum. She steps up to my cabin now an' again an' her and me talks. The Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady I calls her, an' nights I lie an' think onher, an' she comes an' brings my daid babies to me in dreams-like, an'then I reach out for Sammy, an' I feel right comforted. "

Ivy came close to her caller now and looked into the weary, sunken eyescompassionately. Her contempt of the po' white trash faded before thepathetic desolateness of Liza's glance. 

"Liza Hope, " she said, fixing the roving stare by her tone, "how be yougoing to face this winter? You be as fool-like as dis yere oldhen-hussy. All your chillens was born during respectable times o'year. What you-all goin' to do wid no wood-pile, no nothin', an' ababy comin' long in the black time of winter?"

Liza faced her accuser blankly as if she had nothing whatever to dowith the matter. 

"I ain't no wise 'sponsible, " she faltered; "de good Lord He knows Iain't hankerin' after no mo' calls and troubles. But the Cup-o'-WaterLady don' promise to come to me in my hour an' bide till I pass throughmy trial. Seems like I can bear it now when I think o' that. Some saythey-all don't believe her is kin to Parson Starr as was, but I does. The Lord He don't make two sich-like less He uses the same mixin's. Iknows, I do!"

Ivy started back. Oddly enough this was the first time she had heardthe connection between Starr and the newcomer. She had taken forgranted the rumour that had reached her concerning Marcia Lowe, and shehad disapproved keenly of the call that young woman had made upon hermistress recently, but now, as Liza spoke, sudden recollection startledher. If the stranger were what Liza suggested, why then Ann Walden'scondition might be accounted for! The surprise of this new thoughtturned Ivy giddy, but it also caused her to change the subject ofconversation. 

"When yo' come back from de sto', " she said with frigid dignity, "stopto de' rear do'. I has some corn bread an' bacon what you can carry'long wid yo', an' an ole ironin' blanket fo' coverin'. "

Liza muttered her thanks and shuffled on, her distorted figure castinga weird shadow as the blazing sun struck across her path as she enteredThe Way. 

It was five o'clock when the reddish sunlight suddenly was blotted outby a huge black cloud. An ominous hush came with the shadows, and withinstinctive fear and caution Ann Walden, in the living-room, closed thewindows and doors. Cynthia, who was passing through the hall, ranupstairs to do the same, and then returned and stood listlessly by heraunt near the window looking out over the garden place, the littlebrook, which divided it from the pasture lot below, and the two cowshuddling under a clump of trees beside the tiny bridge which spannedthe stream. 

"I--don't like the look of the sky, " Ann Walden murmured; "I reckonit's going to be a mighty bad storm. Seems like the seasons gettwisted these-er-days. Now if it was spring----" She did not finishher sentence, for a wave of wind brought the lagging storm on itsbreast; a blinding flash of lightning and a crash of thunder set itfree and then the deluge descended. A wall, seemingly tangible, descended from the clouds to the earth--everything was blotted out. 

"Good Lord-a'mighty!" Ivy dashed in from the kitchen, a graynessshowing through the black of her skin; "I mus' save dem cows. I jes'mus'--God help me!" She ran through the room to the front hall, pulling her skirt over her head as she ran. 

"Ivy, I forbid you leaving the house!"

The black woman paused, for even in that moment of excitement traditionheld her--the servant was stopped by the mistress' voice, but too longhad Ivy stood for higher things to renounce them now. She had stoodbetween her loved ones and starvation; she had always kept the worstfrom them and she must continue to do so. 

"Miss Ann, honey, " she said in her soft, old drawl, "dem cattle down byde Branch is all that stan's 'twixt us-all and we-all becoming whitetrash! I jis' got-ter go, chile!"

Then before Ann Walden could speak again the woman was gone! Theywatched her beating her way through the wall of rain, without speaking;with every emotion gripped and silenced by fear and horror the two atthe living-room window waited. They saw her reach the littlefoot-bridge; they saw her pause and hold to the railing as if forbreath and then--there was nothing! The place where old Ivy had stoodwas empty. The cows, too, were going fast and helplessly away on a seaof troubled water. 

Shock numbs the brain and stays suffering, but presently, like afrightened child rousing from sleep, Ann Walden turned to Cynthia. 

"Ivy, " she panted. "Ivy, where is she?"

Cynthia could not answer. She tried, but speech failed her. Withlarge, fixed eyes she continued to stare at the blank space where oncethe little bridge had stood. What had happened was too awful for hercomprehension. Then in the drear dimness of the room a hideous laughrang out. 

"Don't! don't, Aunt Ann!" Words came desperately now to the child;"oh! I'm so afraid!"

But again and again the laugh sounded. 

"We-all are poor white trash! poor white trash! ha! ha! ha!"

Cynthia shrank from Ann Walden. What had happened she could not know, but of a sudden the old woman became a stranger, a stranger to be caredfor and guarded--one to defend. 

"Come, " whispered Cynthia, "come away--dear--it's all right! Come, come!"

Alternately laughing and sobbing, Ann Walden followed the guiding ofthe hand upon her arm; she permitted herself to be placed on the raggedsofa on the opposite side of the room. 

"Poor white trash!"

And there Tod Greeley and Liza Hope found them hours after. Cynthia, beside the prostrate woman, was crooning as to a baby, and over andover the desperate old voice wailed:

"We-all are poor white trash!"

CHAPTER VII

When Sandy had departed down The Way he felt weak and stricken. Allthe fervour and exhilaration were gone; there was no turning back, andhe could not stand still. The walk to The Forge could easily be madebefore morning, with time to sleep on the way, so there was nothing todo but forget his misery and travel on. The storm, too, emphasized thenecessity for this. On beyond there was a deserted cabin by the trail;he could sleep there in comparative comfort; under the falling roofthere surely must be one dry spot large enough to shelter a thin, tiredboy. 

A crash of thunder caused Sandy to rush forward. He had the childishfear that many country children have of the extremes of Nature, andsuperstition swayed his every thought. Gathering his loose coat abouthim and clutching his money close, he made for The Way, and ran withall the strength remaining in him, for the deserted cabin. 

Flash and splintering noise surrounded him. His eyes were blinded bythe blue-red lightning; his ears were aching from the thunder's shock. Once he stood still, unable to suffer longer--for his nerves wereparalyzed with fear, and at that pause a fork of vivid flame dartedfrom the blackness and ran like the finger of a maniac down the side ofa tall tree. The stroke was so near that the boy did not heed thecrash that followed immediately; he saw the wood and earth fly and heshuddered as he looked. That was the bolt that ended the life of Jimthe negro, but Sandy never knew. 

In unconsciousness the boy waited for, he knew not what! He was dead, yet alive, unable to move or feel, yet standing and seeing. Then hisblood began to flow once more, and sinking to his knees he wept as hehad not since the night when Mary drove him from the cabin to the shedto sleep! Wet and trembling, he finally found strength and courage togo on, but a loneliness of soul and mind almost overcame him. Heraised his aching eyes and saw the clouds parting; he heard the risingwind complaining in the tall trees and shaking the water down upon him. At that moment a star broke through the scudding masses of rollingblackness--one kindly eye of light, and at the same instant somethingtouched his body with thrilling familiarity. He groped and felt in thelower darkness, then--because he had never been taught to pray--SandyMorley bent his head over the wet and shaggy body of Bob, the collie, and laughed and sobbed from sheer gratitude and joy!

Stealthily the faithful creature had followed his friend. Life hadtaught him, even in his puppy days, to curb his inclinations. WhereSandy was, there was always happiness, but it was generally seasonedwith danger, and Bob took no chances. 

"Good dog! dear old fellow!"

Bob licked the caressing hands fondly. Never before had suchappreciation been shown him even by the one who was lavishly bestowingit now; Bob did not seek to understand, he merely accepted and snuggledcloser. 

Sandy knew a later parting with the dog was inevitable, but humannature could not contemplate it then, so he bade Bob follow on and, with regained courage and determination, the two plodded down TheAppointed Way with firmer tread. The shed was reached, and nestlingclose in a protected corner, they slept for several hours with no dreamto disturb or frighten them. The storm passed; the stars shone out, and a new moon crept up from the east. At four o'clock Sandy startedup and began the readjustment of life. Bob was lying across his legsand breathing evenly. The warmth had been grateful even if the weighthad been a burden, and a sense of joy flooded the boy as he patted thedear, faithful head. 

A few minutes later the two were again on the road. Breakfast wouldhave been acceptable, but both boy and dog had learned that food wasnot a vital necessity for the day's beginning. A cup of warming fluidwould have set Sandy up wonderfully, for his throat was sore and hisbones ached, but The Forge was not a great distance away and it was anew sensation to have a pocket full of money. 

"Bob, when we get there you and I will fill up--I swear it, Bob!"

The collie resented the oath. He was willing to share and share alike, and between friends surely there was no need for such emphasis. 

A soaked wood road on an early August morning is not a cheering place, and the travellers plodded on with weakening limbs and heavy hearts. Sandy comforted himself by the thought that food would set him up, butas he thought this his stomach rejected the idea with sickeninginsistence. The more he thought of food the more his head ached andhis throat throbbed. Bob, unhampered by physical claims, jogged alongcheerfully. He was used to hope deferred, and he was appreciative ofthe company he was in, and the absence of rough words and well-aimedkicks and blows. 

The few miles of The Way seemed doubled on the moist August morning;the rising sun merely drew more dampness from the sodden earth; it didnot dry it; but at last Sandy saw the opening ahead which marked theclearing around Smith Crothers' factory, he heard the buzzing andwarning of machinery--at first he thought it was the strange sensationthat was gaining force in his head, but presently he righted things andplucked up courage. Two miles beyond the factory: two miles of lighterwoodland and then the sharp little hill at whose foot The Forge lay!

A busy day lay before Sandy. He must eat--the thought now was positiveagony--buy some necessary clothing and get into touch with someinspired fellow creature who could give him information aboutMassachusetts. Over and over Sandy repeated the magic word. Fornearly a year it had lain dormant in his consciousness. It was hisearthly heaven; the paradise of his longings and desires, but now ithad suddenly taken on earthly meaning and proportions. How was he toget there? Had he money enough to carry him to that wonderland whereone could exchange work for an education?

So absorbed was the half-sick boy with the problem of his near futurethat he passed Crothers' factory unheedingly, and was well down thelast sharp little hill before he realized it. A fever was gainingcontrol over him and making him light-headed and care-free. Massachusetts lost its agonizing doubts--everything appeared to becoming to him; even the inevitable parting with Bob became vague andblurred. Why not take Bob along with him? Why not, indeed?

And so boy and dog, muddy and fagged, came to the end of the hill, tothe edge of the town and the first house, known as Stagg's Place, whereroom and board could be obtained for a consideration!

Sandy, with that growing nausea, made his way toward it, and Bob, withhis sixth sense serving him well, pricked up his ears, put on morestyle of carriage and estimated his chances at the back door. But atthat critical moment an excited old gentleman dashed out of Stagg'sPlace and gripping a walking stick madly waved it on high. SpyingSandy he sensed probable help. 

"Boy!" he shouted lustily, "stop that man! It's--it's life or death. Stop him! Send him back and I'll give you a dollar. "

Sandy rallied his last remnants of strength and turned about. Off inthe distance he saw the mounted postman jogging on his way toward thevillage and he dashed ahead! Bob, with his smouldering puppy naturecoming unexpectedly to his help, scampered on, crazily barking andyelping as he had never permitted himself to do in the guarded past. 

The postman, at last, heard the commotion and stopped short. 

"You are to go back!" Sandy panted; "it's life or--death. "

The horse was turned about and in the mud raised by the retreatinghoofs the boy and dog followed wearily. 

Whatever the matter was that had caused the confusion, it was adjustedby the time Sandy again reached the house. The old gentleman, muttering about a weak leg and a degenerate rascal, was sitting on thepiazza fanning himself with a panama hat, while a thin, eager-eyedwoman urged him to calm himself before worse harm was done. 

"The Lord will provide, Levi, " she was saying, as Sandy and his dogapproached. "His ways are not our ways, but we might as well givecredit where credit is due. His leadings are generally clearer sightedthan ours be, having--as you might say--wider scope to scan. " Then sheglanced at the dirty, worn pair on the steps. 

"Shoo!" she ejaculated, but neither dog nor boy stirred. 

"What do you want?" she next asked. 

"What--he said he would--give!" and then to complicate matters Sandyrolled over in a huddled heap and fainted dead away! Bob, bereft andfrightened, hovered over him, emitting yelps and howls that shatteredthe summer calm. 

The Markhams only took their meals at Stagg's Place; a small cottagenear by was their lodging rooms, and to that Levi Markham ordered twocoloured boys to carry the prostrate Sandy. 

An hour later Matilda Markham sat beside the couch in the shadedliving-room and looked thoughtfully upon the form stretched thereon. From outside the voice of her brother came appealing to all that wasreasonable and sensible in Bob. 

"Of course you can see your master, my good fellow. Just be patient, patient!"

Levi Markham liked all animals, and something about Bob's ruggedugliness and faithfulness called forth his admiration and sympathy. 

"Come, come, old fellow, eat and drink. He's safe enough inside. Youknow well, you rascal, that he _is_ inside!"

Bob blinked confidingly, but he would not touch the food which stoodalluringly near at hand in a shining tin plate. 

Sandy had recovered from his faint, but he was strangely weak and aninner stillness bound him speechless and immovable. He laythere--thinking, thinking! He knew a woman was beside him watching hisevery breath; he heard Bob outside and the sternly kind voice talkingto him. But nothing mattered. Yes, one thing did matter. The moneywas in his pocket and Massachusetts was still in the near future!

Miss Matilda, by the process known only to her sex, had labelled andclassified the boy on the sofa. 

"He's what these shiftless negroes call quality, " she pondered. "Filthy and worn to the bone as he is--he is quality or I miss myguess! Now what on earth has brought him to this pass?"

The lids were drawn close over Sandy's eyes; his thin face was pinchedand wan, and the tan had faded mysteriously from the smooth skin. Adignity rested on brow and mouth, and the work-stained, folded handswere delicate and full of character. Sandford Morley had come to theparting of the ways and he had resigned himself to the inevitable. Hishelplessness put forth an appeal that reached through his sordid miseryto the emotions of Matilda Markham. She adored boys--they were her oneenthusiasm but, like her brother, the more she felt the less shepermitted herself to show. "She knew her duty"--none better; "but shedid not intend to have her feelings joggled in the broad light of dayfor curious folks to witness!"

So she watched Sandy now with her heart painfully in evidence. 

"There's a bruise on his left cheek, " mused Miss Matilda; "like as nothe hit it against something. " It was the effect of the last blow MaryMorley was ever to deal him, but of course the watcher in the orderlycottage could not imagine so outrageous a thing as that. 

"He's got real nice hair if it wasn't so matted. I daresay it wouldcurl if it had half a chance. " Justice called for pity and protection, and while waiting to see what was best to do next, Matilda heededinspiration. 

"You awake?" she whispered. Sandy gave a weak nod. "Want something toeat? No? A drink of water, maybe? No? Very well, lie still and dropoff to sleep again. You'll feel better presently, and can tell usabout yourself, then brother will send you home. "

The room was dim, but Matilda's eyes were keen, and she saw two largetears roll from under the closed lids and down upon the thin cheeks. Because of her understanding of boys, Matilda did not interfere withthose mute tokens of weak surrender. Better the traces on the dirtyskin than a later misunderstanding, but as the tears took their way achildless woman's pity and tenderness was following them mutely. 

"You can't sleep? Well now, never mind. Just don't fuss. " Theninspiration came again. 

"Maybe you'd like to see your dog, he's just outside. He won't eat ordrink and his nose is everlastingly pointed to the door. "

At this Sandy's eyes opened so suddenly and so wide that MatildaMarkham started. She had never seen such large eyes in any human boy'sface and they were such strange, yearning eyes. 

"You _do_ want your dog?"

"Yes, ma'am! oh, yes!"

Without a word more, Matilda strode to the door. 

"Brother, " she said; "we want that dog here!"

Bob leaped up and followed his instincts. He made no noise or cry, hesimply went to the low couch, and snuggled his rough head against theshoulder pressed on the pillow. 

Matilda Markham could not bear the sight. It made her afraid ofherself. Her brother, above all people, must not think her emotional. She knew what he thought of emotional women--he not only believed themincapable, but he mistrusted their moral natures. She walked out tothe porch and sat grimly down in a rocker and swayed back and forthenergetically. 

"It's real hot, " she vouchsafed presently. "This is a terrible shut-inplace. I haven't any use for mountains unless you can get on thetoppest peak. "

"Has that boy explained himself?" asked Levi Markham, also swaying toand fro in his rocker. Matilda shook her head. 

"What do you think we ought to do? I've been inquiring a bit and Ifind there is no police station nor hospital nearer than twenty-fivemiles. I asked the man at Stagg's what they did when men were injuredin the factory, and he looked at me as if he thought I was a fool!'They don't do anything to them, ' he confided. It's an evil hole, Matilda. I never saw a place in my life that needed capital and humanintelligence more. And what about this boy? He must belong somewhere, I suppose. "

"I think he's pretty sick, brother; I guess we'll have to turn to andsupply what the town lacks in ambulances and hospitals. He's burningup with fever, and he has a real wild light in his eyes. "

"What do you mean, Matilda?"

"Well, brother, not to mince matters, I think if you undress him I'llturn to and clean him up some. After that we'll put him to bed in thelittle room off the dining-room and send for a doctor. I suppose theyhave a doctor somewhere around here, haven't they?"

Levi puckered up his lips and frowned. 

"I've questioned about that, too, " he admitted. "There is adoctor--goes horseback with saddle bags and medicine chest on a circuitcovering acres and acres. Kind of a medical bully; brings people intothe world and hustles them out. Doses and cuts them according to hislights. He's off on a stabbing case back among the hills--some still, they say, has let itself loose. He will be back when he patches up theworst and turns the rest over to the authorities. Matilda!"

Miss Markham started. 

"Yes, brother. "

"I don't want any one to see or know about that boy until after we'veseen the doctor. He looks badly used and starved to me, and I neverturn a dumb brute off when its luck is against it, until I know whatI'm turning it to. You get a tub of hot water ready and I'll tacklethe lad now. "

It was seven that evening when the doctor returned from the hills andwas told the "folks from the North" wanted to see him. He did nothurry himself. He rested, ate, and changed his clothes and thensauntered down the road to the cottage. Sandy, the worst of him, asMatilda explained, lay in a comatose state on the narrow, immaculatebed with Bob, now fed and comforted, on the floor beside him. 

"That's Morley's boy from Lost Hollow, " the doctor drawled, as he gazedupon the restless form. "At first I wasn't sure. I never saw himclean before. As I passed through The Hollow to-day Morley came outand told me the news. The boy's left home; he's going to get aneducation somehow--the father said he had saved money. "

"There's nearly thirty-one dollars in his pants' pocket, " Matilda brokein accurately. 

"He comes of good stock back about the time of the Revolution. Runningto seed since. It's mighty odd how blood bursts out now and again. This fellow's mother came from The Forge--a pretty creature--died whenhe was born. Took me thirty-six hours to bring him into life--but Icouldn't save the mother. The father is a degenerate--the only sign ofdecency I ever noticed in him is his thought about this boy. Lookslike a tussle for Sandy Morley now, I reckon. What you want to doabout it? If he lives, which he likely enough won't, he's going to bea right smart bit of care. "

Levi looked at Matilda and Matilda looked at Levi, and then they bothlooked at Sandy. "Massachusetts!" moaned the boy, tossing aboutrestlessly--"I'm going to get there, I tell you! Mass--massa--chu----"The voice trailed off miserably and Bob was alert at once. 

"I never cast a beast out----" began Levi. 

"Not to mention a human boy, " added Matilda. 

"We're going to see him through or--out, doctor. "

The impassive face of the doctor gave no intimation as to his emotions. He took out his medicine bottles and forthwith began to complicateSandy's chances in the hand-to-hand struggle. 

An old black woman, famed for her charms and nursing, was secured byMatilda Markham to assist in the care of Sandy Morley. 

"I shall keep an eye on the witch, " Matilda warned her brother, "butshe has a sense about nursing that can be relied upon. "

And so the battle was on. Gossip about the boy was killed at thebedroom door. No one became interested or cared. The doctor, after aweek or two, chancing upon Martin Morley on The Way, told him ofSandy's good fortune. 

"Morley, if there's a bit of the man in you, " he advised, "let go thatboy and leave him to his opportunity. You've almost killed him, bodyand soul, among you, now; whether it be life or death, let him have atry for the clean thing. It's all you can do for him--forget him!"

And Martin, with bowed head, acquiesced. 

"If he dies----" he faltered. 

"I'll let you know, " the doctor replied. 

But Morley never heard of Sandy's death and the summer merged intoautumn, and the cold and shadow settled upon The Hollow. When winterdrove the mountain folks indoors to closer contact, bad air and poorfood, it drove the devil in with them and hard times followed. Butbefore the grip of winter clutched the hills, Sandy decided that inspite of the odds against him he would make another attempt to reachMassachusetts. 

A mere shadow of a boy was he when, in late September, Matilda Markhamgot him out on the piazza one morning and, having tucked him up well inblankets, remarked enlighteningly, "There!"

All the fineness in Sandy had been emphasized during the weeks ofsickness. As the bad food, the bruises and tan had disappeared--andwhat little flesh which his poor body possessed--the native delicacyand dignity grew and grew. 

The people of The Forge, taking small interest in the Mountain Whites, for whom they had a contempt, merely relegated Sandy to "Luck with theYankee who was dickering about a factory site. "

As for Sandy himself he had wandered too near the perilous edge ofthings to be very keen as to his present and future. Often he lay withclosed eyes and thought back to Lost Hollow. The actual distancebetween him and the only home he had ever known was short but, to acommunity that spoke of Sheridan's Ride as if it had occurred but theday before, and which slunk and shrank from moving out of its shadows, The Forge was a "right smart way off" and, besides, no one but Martinknew of the circumstances surrounding Sandy; and Martin, to the best ofhis ability, was doing the only thing he could do for his boy. Oftenon the long weary tramps in the woods he yearned to get a glimpse ofthings, but the rough doctor's warnings and suggestions held him back. 

"Mart Morley, keep your clutches off that lad. You've nearly put anend to him. Give others a try now. "

So with a courage and self-denial no one knew or suspected, Martin keptto the hills and made ready for winter as best he could. He and Molly, when the mood seized her, gathered wood and piled it carelessly by thecabin door. It seemed a goodly pile while the days were still warm andfine, but Martin, with a groan, realized how small the accumulationreally was with the long, black months lying before. 

CHAPTER VIII

The warm sun of September brought a faint tinge to Sandy's hollowcheeks. After Matilda's "There!" the boy had leaned his head back onthe pillow of his couch and closed his eyes. Bob, sleek andwell-conditioned, lay at his feet, starting now and then as he dreamedof other days rich in kicks and blows, and lean as to platters ofnourishing food. 

"Sleeping?" asked Levi, coming on the porch with the mail andwhispering to his sister. 

"I shouldn't wonder. "

"He looks----" But Matilda shook her head at Levi and cut the wordsshort. To express an opinion about Sandy's appearance at that momentwould not do--it were best passed over lightly. Levi took a chair, drew it up close to his sister, and left Sandy and Bob free to compare, in dreams, the Then and Now of Life. 

"It was no use, " Markham whispered. "I might just as well have let theletter go that day he"--Levi nodded toward Sandy--"made his entrance onthe scene. They won't accept my terms. I wish now I had let them knowhow I felt when my blood was up. "

"Life's too short for that, brother. Up or down, blood hampers whenit's hot. Common sense is always best. What does the letter say?"

"The Treadwell woman won't lose her hold on Lansing: not even for fouryears!"

Matilda's eyes dropped and she kept silent. 

"She's about ruined him, " Levi went on. "I put it to her plain andsolemn, but she always slips through argument like a greased snake. Said I--let me have his next four years. I'll put him through college, give him work in the mills during the summer, and when he graduatesI'll give him a choice of taking over the business or following aprofession. The knowledge of business and some honest, hard work wouldbring the scamp's tone up. He's flabby now; flabby as his fatherbefore him. "

"And she--says?"

Levi turned to the letter. 

"She says she will not consider the plan for a moment, but she says shewill not mention it to Lansing, and when I return he may choose forhimself. I really thought the Treadwell woman would reckon with themoney and not be so independent!"

"It's to her credit, " Matilda murmured. 

"Oh! doubtless she thinks when I have it out with the boy I'll changemy mind. She'll find the contrary. It's come to the last ditch now. I'm not going to have any repetition of--the past with my money backingit!"

Again a long silence while Sandy apparently slept, and Bob twitched andgrunted. Then:

"Matilda, we must return to Massachusetts. How soon can we go?"

Suddenly Sandy started up and leaned forward. His eyes were the oneprominent feature in his face, and they were now hungry and anxious. 

"Massachusetts?" he whispered in the weak, hoarse voice of theconvalescent; "Massachusetts? That's where I'm going; there's money topay my way, almost, I reckon. I'll work out the rest and make myschooling, too. I'll promise. Oh! take me with you!"

The agony of earnestness brought both man and woman to his side. 

"Now, now!" commanded Matilda, pushing him back on the pillow; "nothingis ever gained by using yourself up in this shallow fashion. "

"But I've got to go!" Sandy urged breathlessly; "I started out to go. I saved ever since I was seven years old to get away--and at last Ifixed on--Massachusetts because they let you work for your learningthere--and I've got to get it--get learning!"

"Come! come!" Levi asserted himself--"just you calm down. But if itwill ease your mind any I'll tell you this much, lad. We've got it allfixed up amongst us--and if you want to go to Massachusetts and tryyour hand at your luck, you're going to be given an opportunity. Now, let go that grip on the arms of your chair! Matilda, get some broth;get----"

But he stopped short. The look in Sandy's eyes held him. Levi Markhamoften said afterward that the expression on the boy's face at thatmoment gave him a "turn. " It was no boy-look; it was the command fromall that had gone to the making of Sandy; command that the boy be dealtfairly with at last. 

"I'm a hard man, Matilda, " Markham said later, when Sandy had let gothe grip of his chair, taken his broth and fallen exhaustedly to sleep;"I'm a hard man who has hewn his own way up, but I hope I'm a just man, and I declare before God I wouldn't dare play unfairly with the lad. He's not the first fellow I've put upon his feet; some have toppledover; some have gone ahead of me and given me the cold shoulderafterward--a few have stood by me in the mills--this youngster shallhave a try to prove that look on his face. "

So it was that ten days later the Markhams, with their "po' whitetrash, " left The Forge--Bob rebelliously struggling in the baggage car. A certain piece of land high up among the hills had been purchased byMarkham and the deed rested secure in his pocket. He knew what he wasabout, and if a certain fool of a boy thought well of a proposition tobe made to him--there might be a future for himself and others later on. 

"It's a great factory site, " Markham had written home to his lawyer;"plenty of water and power. Land as rich as if it was just made, andlabour aching to be utilized--not exploited. "

The journey to Massachusetts was taken in slow stages--Sandy and Bobcomplicated matters. 

"You--think, sir, my money will--hold out?" Sandy once asked wearily. 

"I've been estimating, " Levi thoughtfully returned; "barring accidents, taking to cheap hotels and allowing for a few weeks' rest after wereach home, the amount will about see you through. "

"Thank you, sir. "

They were talking in Sandy's bedroom in a very good hotel in New Yorkat that moment. 

"You look pretty spruce to-day, young man. "

"I'm feeling right smart, sir. Could--could I, do you think, write--two notes?"

This was such an unusual request that Markham was curious. 

"That's easy, " he said; "there's writing things in yonder desk. I'llread the paper while you transact business. "

Sandy was strangely sensitive to tones and expressions and now heturned to Markham. 

"I want--my father to know I'm all right, sir, " he said quietly. "Ifhe knows that--he can wait till--I go back. "

Suddenly the long stretches on beyond staggered Sandy and his thin facequivered. 

"Then--there is----" Somehow an explanation seemed imperative to thisman who was making life possible for him. There had never been anyintimacy before, but something compelled it now; "a--a girl, sir. Shehelped me--earn money. She's--different from me--she's--quality, butshe'd like to know, too. "

Levi shifted his newspaper so that it walled Sandy's grim face fromview. 

"What's to hinder you making quality of yourself?" he asked. He was aman that liked his beneficiaries to succeed, and while Sandy interestedhim, in spite of himself, he disliked the boy's humility. There wassomething final and foreordained about it, and unless it werediscouraged it might prevent what Markham was beginning to very muchdesire. 

"Quality, sir, is not made. It--is!"

Levi grunted, and Bob, paying a visit to the room on sufferance, snarled resentfully. 

"You cut that out, boy!" Markham snapped; "in Yankeeland it doesn't go. Massachusetts gives a good many things besides an education for goodhonest work: it gives opportunity for the man to grow in every humansoul. We don't apologize for ourselves by digging up our ancestors--weonly exhume them to back us up. By the time you go home you can standup to the best of them in your hills--if it's in you to stand. It alllies with you. Now write your letters and leave all foolishness out. Afterward I have a plan to propose. "

So Sandy painfully scratched his two notes off and sealed and addressedthem. Then he waited for Markham's further notice. 

The day was cool and fine, but the heated air of the room made an openwindow necessary. By that Sandy sat and looked out upon the big, seething city of which he was so horribly afraid. It smothered andcrowded him; its noises and smells sickened him. The few excursions hehad made with his projectors had left him pale and panting. He made nocomplaints--he realized that he was on the wheel, and must cling howand as he might, but he shrank mentally at every proposition that heshould leave his room. The crowds of people appalled him and heyearned for the open and the sight of a hill. He dreamed vividly ofLost Mountain, and he always saw it now enveloped in mist--a mist thathe felt confident would never again lift for him. It was homesicknessin the wide, spiritual sense that overpowered Sandy Morley at that time. 

"Sandford, are you strong enough to talk business?"

"Yes, sir, I reckon I am. "

The quaint politeness of his protégé charmed Markham by its contraststo the manner of other boys with whom he had come into contact. 

"Sit down, and take it easy. Shut the window. You never seem to beable to hear when the sash is raised. "

"Us-all's been used, sir, to still places. "

"Now, then! In a day or two we will be home, Sandford. Home inBretherton, Mass. We can't offer you mountains there, but it is a goodrolling country and it's--quiet! I'm going to choose a school for youas soon as I can, a country school where you can catch up withouthaving the life nagged out of you. "

"And--and where am I to work and--live, sir?"

"You'll find work enough at the school for the regular terms--summersyou are going to stop with Miss Markham and me and I'll set you to workin my mills. I always set every one I take an interest in, to work inmy mills. "

"Yes, sir. " Sandy's eyes were growing "strange" again. Markham waslearning to watch for that look. 

"What's the matter?" he asked on the defensive; "what you thinkingabout?"

"Only Smith Crothers' factory, sir, and--and the children. "

"See here, Sandford; don't you get me mixed with that----" he stoppedshort. At times his ability to converse with Sandy struck even himwith wonder. It was when he forgot the poor figure before him, and washeld by the expression in the thin face, that he let himself go. 

"My mills, " he continued more calmly, "are places of preparation;not--death traps. "

"Yes, sir. "

"It all depends on you, Sandford. I made my way up from as poor a chapas you are. I've given a lift to a good many other boys because of theboy I once was, but I never take any nonsense. I'm going to be fairwith you and I expect you to be fair with me. Take things or leavethem--only speak out what's in your mind and act clean. What I do foryou isn't done for fun: I expect a return for everything I advance, andI take my own way to get it. While you are at school--it's schoolreturns I want. When you go into the mills--I'll look for returns of adifferent kind. I'm going to give you an allowance, and it's got todo. "

"Sir?"

"Oh!--I mean I'm going, after I get you on your feet, to put up acertain sum of money for you to live on; buy your clothes and get whatamusement you can--along your own lines. I'm not going to pry orquestion you. You've got to feel your way along--it's always mymethod. They who stumble or run astray must learn their ownlesson--not mine! I'll steady you at the start; after that you've gotto learn to walk alone or go to----"

"Yes, sir!" The awful weight of responsibility was crushing Sandy asthe city did--but he kept clear eyes on Markham. 

"The only fun I have in life, " Levi said, "is watching the outcome ofmy investments. You are an investment, Sandford, a flier--I call you!You're a risk and a pick-up, but some of my biggest hauls came fromfishing where others scorned to take a chance. 

"Yes, sir. "

"You are willing to--agree?"

"Oh! yes, sir. "

"Sounds like a big chance?"

"I reckon it does, sir, but it's what I saved money for ever since Iwas seven. The _chance_, I mean, sir. "

"Sandford, when you feel that you can--not now, but some day--I wantyou to tell me all about yourself. "

"Yes, sir. " But the thin face twitched. 

"And now come down to dinner. "

For a few days more the crushing city did its worst for Sandy. Thenoise and confusion wore upon him cruelly. The memory of the faces ofthe crowds was to be a nightmare to him for years to come. To one whohad dwelt where few crossed his path, the close proximity of hundredsand hundreds of eyes during the day left an impression never to beforgotten. The personal contact, too, drained the small, lately gainedstrength, but no complaint passed the boy's lips. Matilda pitied Sandyand in her quiet, slow thoughtfulness shielded him how and as shecould. Markham had business in the city and was often absorbed, but atodd moments he relaxed and sought to entertain his sister and theircharge by showing them the sights of the town. It would have beenimpossible for him to appreciate the suffering he often, unconsciously, caused Sandy, who, left to himself, would have crouched in some quietcorner and closed his eyes against every unfamiliar thing. 

Quite weakened by the experiences of the stay in New York, the boyreached at last the lovely little New England village of Bretherton atthe close of a radiant autumn day. He was too weary to feel evengratitude as the carriage that awaited the party bore him away from thenoise and smell of the station by the railroad. His untried senses hadbeen taxed to the uttermost since leaving The Forge. His eyes ached;his ears throbbed. Every new odour was an added torture, and his bodyquivered at every touch. Sleep came to him early, however, and thesmall, quiet room of the Markham house which had been allotted to himwas like a sacred holy of holies to the overstrained nerves. Sandyslept like the dead all that first night, but habit still swayed him, and at five o'clock he wakened suddenly and heard the stir of life outof doors. Some one was calling a dog--his dog! It was Miss Matilda, and Sandy smiled as he listened to her reasoning with Bob as was hercustom. Slowly the rested nerves asserted dominion over the boy, buthe did not move. He was back, in longing, among the old Lost Hollowscenes. He was too weak to adjust himself into a new environment;changes had worn out his ambition and hope. Miserably he turned uponhis pillow and with a sinking of the soul yearned to take his faithfulBob with him and go back to that life which demanded no more of himthan he was able to give. 

But that very afternoon his future became so involved with that ofanother, whom he had never seen, that to turn back would have been animpossibility. He and Bob were walking over a stretch of soft, hillyland toward the autumn-tinted woods beyond, when young LansingHertford, the son of Levi Markham's dead sister, arrived for aconsultation with his uncle. All his life Markham had hungered forsomething that had never been his--something peculiarly his own! Hishard and struggling younger years had denied any personal luxury. Hehad worked his way up; supported his old father and mother and twosisters; had grimly set his face away from love and marriage, and thenwhen wealth and opportunity came to him the desire was past. But withrigid determination he looked in other directions for compensation. Atfirst it was his younger sister, Caroline. Like so many self-made men, the fine, dainty things of life attracted him. He had dreams of costlyoil paintings and rare china, but in the meantime he devoted himself tohis sisters. He and Matilda were of one mind: after their parents'death Caroline became their only care. 

Exquisite, carefully educated and beautiful, they gloried in her. Theyendured the loneliness of the old Bretherton home while she visitedwith schoolmates, or travelled abroad with new and gayer friends. Caroline was the music of their dull lives; the art of their prosaicexistences. Then the shock came when she announced her engagement toLansing Hertford, an idle, useless son of a down-at-the-heel Southernfamily. 

"He's no fit mate for you, Caroline, " Markham said alarmedly. 

"That may be, brother, " the girl had replied, "but I must marry him. You have always said one must learn his own lesson, not another's. Iam ready to take the consequences. I could never get away from thesound of Lansing Hertford's voice. I hear him at night. He tells methat when temptation or weakness overpowers him he breathes my name. So, you see, dear, I cannot escape. "

"Don't be a fool, Caroline!"

Markham struggled against the sense of impotency surging around him. 

"It's my lesson, dear. I'll never wince. "

And she never had, even when Hertford's indifference changed tocruelty. After the birth of her child, Caroline Hertford failedrapidly and the end of her lesson came when her boy was two years old. Markham and Matilda had desired to take the baby then, but Mrs. OliveTreadwell, Hertford's married sister, put in a protest. 

"It would blight the boy's future if any gossip touched the dead motheror bereaved father; besides he is too young to change nurses orenvironment. "

When little Lansing was seven his father died abroad under conditionsshrouded with secrecy, and then it was that Olive Treadwell sought LeviMarkham and by methods unknown to the simple, direct man, contrived tointerest him in her nephew and his. 

"There'll be a mighty big fortune some day for some one to inherit--whynot Lans?" she argued to herself and began her campaign. She had grownto love the boy in her vain, worldly way; she wanted him _and_ theMarkham money, and she cautiously felt her way through the years whilethe child was with her. 

"I hear my nephew is called by your name, " Levi remarked once during acall at the Boston home of the Treadwells. 

"Just a childish happening. You know how simple little minds are;having no mother but me, he calls me mommy, and naturally people speakof him carelessly by my name. "

"He should bear his own and seek to honour it, " Markham returned withsimplicity equalling a child's. Mrs. Treadwell winced. She dared notshow how she resented any unkind reference to her brother, but she hadalways looked down upon his Yankee marriage, as she termed it, andnever could understand why the plain Markhams failed to realize thehonour her brother had paid them by taking Caroline for his wife. 

"I must see that the misnomer is corrected, " was all Mrs. Treadwellrejoined. So Lansing had passed through preparatory school and wasready for college before Markham could be brought to definite terms. The letter from The Forge was the first proposition, and now on thatSeptember day Lansing Hertford, prepared and coached by his auntTreadwell, presented himself at Bretherton on the two-fifty train. 

"He'll probably offer you a beastly little allowance, " Olive Treadwellhad warned; "but I'll add to that; so accept it like a lamb. Thenhe'll throw Cornell to you--he has right bad taste in universities--butyou must use your tact there, Lans. Tell him about your associates andhow your future will be influenced by your college Frat and suchthings. Men like your uncle Markham are always snobs at heart. "

Thus reinforced Lansing Hertford came up for judgment. He was ahandsome, rollicking chap--a charming combination of his gracefulfather and his lovely mother--and he greeted his uncle and aunt withfrank affection. Even in those days Lansing Hertford could will hisemotions--or his emotions could will him--to sincerity for the timebeing. He had ideals and enthusiasms--he changed them often, and, asoften, they changed him, but outwardly a frankness and openness werehis chief attributes and had held his uncle, through the hope-deferredyears, to expect big things of him. 

CHAPTER IX

Lansing Treadwell, after an hour on the piazza with his aunt and uncle, followed the latter into the study and, taking the broad leather chair, faced Markham across the flat desk with candid, friendly eyes. Levisat, as he always did when in that room, in his revolving chair; theleather one was reserved for visitors. 

"Well, Lansing, " he began, sternly endeavouring to obscure the hope, pride, and affection that were welling up in his heart as he looked atthe boy; "you're through preparatory; have qualified for college and, after this year, are ready for your career!"

"I've done pretty well, Uncle Levi. I stand third in my class and I'mthe youngest. "

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen. "

"You'll be eighteen when you enter college? That's too young. "

"I'm older than my years, " Lansing gave a boastful laugh, then did abungling thing. "Won't you smoke, Uncle Levi?" and he passed ahandsome silver case forward; "it's a great tie between--well, chums!"

"I've lived over sixty years without the need of that tie, " Markhamreturned stiffly; "I do not think I'll take it up now. I'm not much ofa preacher, but at your age, Lansing, I'd advise the collection of goodtastes and habits; let the doubtful luxuries await the years ofdiscretion. "

Lansing pocketed his silver case and gave an embarrassed laugh. Leviwent back to his former line of argument. 

"It's Cornell and the beggarly allowance, " thought Lansing, but it wasno such thing. 

"You are too young to go to college, Lans; too immature to really putyourself to any final test. Your assumption of dignity proves thismore than anything else. Of course I do not know how much or howlittle you know of the past, but it is necessary, from now on, that youand I should understand each other perfectly. I was very"--Levistruggled for composure--"very fond of your mother. "

"Yes, uncle. "

"And I did not want her to marry your father. I feared he would notmake her happy--he did not!"

The crisp facts came out with force but with no malignity, and LansingHertford dropped his eyes as he replied:

"Aunt Olive has told me they were very uncongenial. " A flush rose tothe young fellow's face. A pride, not altogether unworthy, rang in thewords and for the first time Markham detected a resemblance to thefather in the close-shut lips. 

"I do not wish to say anything against your father that is avoidable, but for your own safety and my own protection I realize that you and Imust be quite open with each other. "

"Yes, uncle. "

"Your mother died more of a broken heart than of anything else. "

The boy set his jaw. 

"I know father loved life and took it as it came, " he said. 

A brief silence rested between the two, then Markham went on:

"Naturally you inherit from both your parents. To a certain extent, certainly, a man, under God, is master of his life and I want to giveyou the best possible choice that lies in my power, not only for yourown sake and mine, but for your mother's and--yes! your father's!"

"Thank you, Uncle Levi. "

And now the boy's eyes were raised once more. They swept the room, Markham's face, and then travelled to the broad acres in richcultivation as far as one could see. 

"You have had too much pleasure and luxury, Lans; things have come tooeasily. You have never been brought face to face with a longing, andbeen made to understand that sacrifice, on your part, was necessary toobtain it. Unless you have felt so, you are in no position to findyourself, as you put it. "

Again the vital silence. 

"How do you know whether you want a college education or not? How doyou know you are worthy of this great privilege? You may not even befitted for it by nature. "

Had Markham asked if his nephew knew whether he would ever want to eata meal again, the boy could not have been more surprised. College, tohim and his set, was as natural a sequence as dessert after the coursespreceding it. For the life of him Lansing could not prevent a stare. His aunt had left him utterly unprepared for this. 

"Now this is my proposition:" Markham had his elbows on his desk, hischin resting on the points of his clasped hands; "I will take you intothe mills on exactly the same terms as I would any other youngfellow--except that you will share my home--until you learn therudiments of the business and discover whether you have any businesssense or not. By the time you have mastered that and experienced somebodily labour, you will be in a position where you can choose, to somedegree, your career. Should you, then, wish to enter college, I willpermit you to select one, and I will see you through. It is my firmbelief that between a preparatory school and college there should be aspace of time, except in particular cases, for looking backward andforward--a breathing time; a time for relaxation and the acquiring offixed aims. College should not be passed out to a boy as a plum or aluxury--it's too grave a matter for that. All my life I have deploredthe lack of it--but I had to live and suffer before I realized itsimportance. "

With all his honesty Lansing Hertford was trying at this critical timeto get his uncle's point of view. Of one thing alone was he sure--hewas, he believed, so far ahead of his uncle in his knowledge of lifethat the old gentleman seemed but a blurred speck on the socialhorizon. No longer could he be looked to as a safe adviser. Why, leftto himself, the man might sacrifice the family name and prestige! Hedid not even understand the decent conventions due his own standing inthe community! Suddenly Lansing Hertford felt old and anxious asthough upon him, instead of Levi, rested the responsibility of thefuture. He tried to frame a reply that might enlighten and not insult, but it was difficult. At last he spoke. 

"Uncle Levi, I cannot see what such effort and success as yours amountto if they do not place the next generation higher. What you say youhave deplored in your own life should prove to you what I ought tohave. Your experience counts for so much, you know. I expect to work, and work hard--I always have worked hard. I'm two years ahead of mostfellows of my age. But I want to start from where you and my AuntOlive leave off, I want to mingle with my kind--I am all but qualifiedto enter Yale--I could not go--back!"

"Your kind! Go back!" Levi's eyes flashed under his shaggy brows. "What is your kind? Have you ever mingled with those above or belowyou? And as to going back--is it degrading to place yourself in aposition from which you can accept or decline a great opportunityintelligently? I was forced to learn my lesson in a hard school; youcan still learn the lesson even with the limitations of luxury. Your'kind' is good, bad, and indifferent, and there are other kinds. I seeyou before me, young and hopeful--but ignorant and blind. I want toopen every avenue to you that leads to successful manhood. You arelosing nothing by my plan; you are gaining much. " Something verypleading rang in Markham's voice, but Lansing was deaf to it. 

"Uncle Levi--I cannot! I'd be a disappointment to you if I tried. I've got to go on with the fellows. I'd lose more than you know if Ibroke away now and--and buried myself in the mill, and then tried laterto pick up. You've never been through what I have--the break would bethe end of me! You'd know it when it was too late. I mean to try tobe the best of my kind, indeed I do--but the fellow I am is the resultof my training and it means everything to me. "

What Levi Markham saw before him now was the son of LansingHertford--all resemblance to the mother was gone. Baffled and defeatedby a something invincible and beyond his understanding, the old manfaced the calmness of the young fellow in the chair across the desk. When he spoke he addressed a Hertford only. 

"You have heard my proposition, Lansing; I mean to stand by it; unlessyou can accept my terms I shall change my will. "

Could Markham only have understood he would have known that it was thepride of his race, not the Hertfords', that spurred Lansing to retortangrily:

"I did not know I was being bought. I thought you were doing it forwhat you believed was my good!"

"And so I am!" The incongruity of thus arguing with a boy of seventeendid not strike Markham. It was man to man, with the influence of OliveTreadwell in the reckoning!

"Give me my college first, Uncle Levi, and consider the businessafterward. "

"I have worked this thing out, Lansing. I am not likely to change mymind. "

And just then Sandy Morley passed by the window with his dog at hisheels. 

"Who is that?" asked Lans indifferently, and a blind impulse spokethrough Markham. 

"The boy who will accept the offer I make if you decline it!"

Lansing Hertford got upon his feet. All the forced affection andrespect he had been trained to observe dropped from him. His uncleseemed a coarse, hard stranger, the surroundings distasteful. Acertain mental homesickness for all the pleasant luxury and environmentof his Aunt Olive's life overcame him. He spoke boyishly. 

"I think I will return to Boston to-night, Uncle Levi. There's a trainat seven. I couldn't eat dinner feeling as I do. Good-bye, I'm goingto walk to the station. Will you be good enough to send my traps upto-morrow. Bid Aunt Tilda good-bye, please. "

He put out his hand frankly and was gone before Markham realized thesituation. 

"It was not Lans you were fighting, " Matilda sagely remarked later whenher brother explained matters to her, "it was his dead father, andOlive Treadwell. You just better write to the boy, I guess, and gethim to finish out his visit and reconsider. I tell you flat-footed, Levi, there ain't much give to you when you've worked yourself up, andI must say I like the lad all the better for the way he stood up forhis kin. They are his kin, and good or bad, that Treadwell woman haswon his affection when we couldn't. And to throw that--that strangeboy at his head in that fashion! It wasn't worthy of you, Levi! Itwas downright shallow and you prating always of justice and sanereasoning!"

What might have happened when Markham had digested his sister'spractical remarks was never to be known, for Olive Treadwell, in blindfury, and what she considered righteous indignation, prevented. 

Weak and unbalanced, but with a deep-seated belief in her socialsuperiority and worldly knowledge, she sent a letter, by specialdelivery, to Bretherton, that left Levi incapable of response:

I suppose you have taken this method of degrading my dead brother andme. That one of your humble origin can estimate the impression uponanother of such an offer as you made to my nephew is quite beyondexpectation. The Hertfords have always been gentlemen and ladies and_you_ would send the last of the race, by the power of your vulgarmoney, to work among common labourers in order to break his spirit andpride! You are too blind, apparently, to appreciate the honour mybrother paid your sister by marrying her. His personal shortcomingscould not possibly outweigh the position that he gained for her whenshe took his name. Through all these years I have suppressed myfeeling as to the matter because I have felt that you and I, workingtogether, might place the son of your sister and my brother in aposition that would reflect credit upon us both; but since you havefailed to recognize your opportunity and, in sordid revenge, havesought to degrade him, I assume _all_ responsibility in the future. Iam, comparatively, a poor woman, but hereafter _Lansing Treadwell_ andI will share and share alike. I shall endeavour, to the best that isin me, to prove to him that it is such men as you who hold the worldback! Men who over-estimate money and undervalue blood and socialposition are not to be envied or trusted. 

Having read this aloud to Matilda, Levi dropped the closely writtensheet to the floor. 

"She's got the courage of her convictions, " Matilda snapped. 

"And an old grudge, " Markham returned. 

"Well, I will say this for her, " Matilda added; "she's upset her kettleof fish and Lans', too. "

"So it seems! So it seems!"

Levi was looking at a flaming maple tree outside and thinking of hisdead sister. 

It was the evening of the day of the letter that Sandy Morley, sittingrigidly in the chair that Lansing Hertford had lounged in, listened toas much of an outline of his future as Levi Markham felt he couldcomprehend. 

"And remember, " Markham warned at the end, "I want you to learn how_little_ a hundred dollars is as well as how big! One is as importantas the other. "

"Yes, sir, " Sandy returned with a vague wonder, for he had yet to learnto think in dollars. 

"Can you"--Markham considerately paused before putting the nextquestion--"do you feel able to tell me a little more about yourselfthan I already know? I should like to feel that you trust me. "

Sandy was stronger and better for his days in Bretherton and, neverhaving had any great consideration shown him, he looked upon LeviMarkham as a veritable God especially upraised for his guidance andprotection. 

"I want to tell you!" he said in a low, tense voice. Leaning forwarduntil his arms touched the opposite side of the desk, his thin, sensitive face was nearly on a level with Markham's. 

"It's--this--er--way. "

The shade at the broad window behind Sandy had not been lowered, and avery magnificent black night riddled with stars stood like a shieldagainst which the boyish form and pale face rested. There was acrumbling fire on the hearth, and the lamp on the table was turned low. Markham, listening to the slow, earnest voice, became hypnotized by itsquality and pure purpose. He felt the dreariness and hopelessness ofthe hard childhood, and the hate that Mary Morley had aroused seemed tothe listener to be the first vivifying happening. He never took hiseyes from Sandy's face from first to last. The years of labour, self-sacrifice and fixed purpose stirred him strangely, and the touchof spirit introduced into the boy's voice when he approached the endfound an echo in Markham's heart. 

"I'm going to learn and then go back and help them-all who can't helpthemselves, " Sandy explained, "for _I_ know, sir. No one what does notknow, could ever do it! Us-all fears strangers. I'm going to getthem-all safe some day, sir. I'm going to have a right, big place togather them in and teach them. No Hertford curse is going to kill whathas called me!"

So abstracted had Levi been, so distant in thought from the Brethertonstudy, and his own inward trouble, that this name, falling from Sandy'slips, shocked him beyond measure. 

"What--did--you--say?" he gasped; "what name did you say?"

"Hertford, sir. "

"What do you know of the Hertfords?" It was all Markham could do tohold his emotions in abeyance. 

Sandy told his father's story, all but that which related to theWaldens, and the listener hung on every word. 

"And so, sir, don't you see, I must be what they-all, my kith and kin, couldn't be? I've got to use my chance for them as well as for me. "

"It's a big proposition, boy!" Levi relaxed. 

"Yes, sir. " The young face was tired and worn. 

"Well, then, listen"--a strange light shone in Markham's eyes--"if youprove yourself able to tackle this job, by God, I'll back you! You andI will redeem that old Hollow of yours--you with my money! We'll getSmith Crothers by the throat and throttle him; we'll clean up the SpeakEasies and cut more windows in the cabins. Where did you get thenotion, son, that with more light and air there would be lessdamnation?"

"I've lived in the cabins, sir. "

"Well, we'll cut all the windows you want and have the schooland"--Markham was quivering--"we'll see if the Morleys can't rise up inthe land of their fathers and stamp the Hertfords under foot!"

"Yes, sir!" And then Sandy gave one of his rare, rich laughs. 

From that day the preparations began. A school in the mountains of NewHampshire was selected, and Sandy fitted out with everything necessaryand proper. 

Markham was noted for a sense of propriety. He kept his mills andlands in good condition because he was wise and sane; he housed hisemployees decently for the same reason, and he insisted upon theircoöperation. He never let his taxes lapse, nor his money lie fallow. He had, hidden in a drawer of his desk, a valuable diamond ring that hetook out in secret moments to enjoy. Occasionally the jewels were sentto Boston and put on the wheel because the artistic soul of LeviMarkham demanded that through no carelessness of his should theirlustre become dimmed. For much the same reasons Sandy Morley wasentered upon his career in a manner befitting the hope that was inMarkham for him. 

The day Sandy was sent from Bretherton, Olive Treadwell and her adoptedson, Lansing Treadwell, sailed for a year's stay in Europe, and Leviand Matilda Markham grimly agreed to leave things as they were. 

"There's no use stirring up pudding past a certain point, " Matildasaid. "If you do it's apt to go heavy. "

"And it's the part of wisdom to watch a rising batch of bread, " Levireturned humorously. "When you can't get pudding--or when the puddingfails--look to bread and make the best of it!"

CHAPTER X

Cynthia Walden came slowly up the trail leading to the old gray house. Since the day of the flood which bore old Ivy forever from sight, shehad confronted so many strange conditions that her eyes had thehaunted, frightened expression common to the mountain people. Thecurse of the hills seemed to have settled upon her. She often said toherself, "poor whites, " in order that the significance might be fullyunderstood. Old Ivy had said that the cows were all that stood betweenthem and the fate of others who had, through misfortune, accepted thetitle despised by the quality. 

Well, she, Cynthia Walden, was no longer quality; of that there couldbe no doubt. Had Ivy and the cows been spared she might have hiddenher disgrace of parentage, but now she must, in order to get food andwood, seek the help and charity of others, and she could no longer holdup her head!

At this thought the pretty, drooping head was lifted defiantly. No!she would not go down just yet, for one last motive remained. Whileshe was at the store an hour before to buy a few necessary articles offood with the pitiful supply of money she had found in an old teapot onthe kitchen shelf, a wonderful thing had occurred. Tod Greeley, weighing out some tea, remarked casually:

"I reckon, now I think o' it, Miss Cyn, there's a letter come for you. One for you and one for Mr. Morley. "

"A letter!" Cynthia almost staggered. "A letter!"

Never in all her life had Cynthia received a letter, never had herimagination soared to such a height as to conceive of such a thing. Tod finished his careful weighing, then added a reckless handful and, having tied the tea up in a bulky package, wandered to the dirty row ofletter boxes. 

"Here it is!" he exclaimed after thumbing the morning mail over andremarking about each article. 

"Yours and Mr. Morley's bear the same writing--Noo York! There ain'tbeen a Noo York letter in this yere post-office since I came to TheHollow. It's a right smart compliment, Miss Cyn!"

Trembling and pale with excitement, Cynthia grasped the letter, tuckedher little bundles under her arm and ran from the store. 

The cold, crisp air of late autumn spurred her to action, and she kepton running, with the letter burning her hand like flame, so tightly didshe grip it. Before she reached the broken and dilapidated fenceseparating the home place of Stoneledge from the trail, she pausedbeneath a tree to take breath and reconnoitre. She looked at theletter then for the first time, and she was sure it was from Sandy. Her heart beat painfully and her eyes widened. Looking about to makesure of privacy she tore open the envelope and lo! at the first wordsthe gray autumn day glowed like gold, and the world was set to music. Poor Sandy, distracted by the noise and confusion of the big city, hadpermitted himself, when writing to Cynthia, the solace of imaginationand memory. 

"Dear Madam Bubble!" Why, Cynthia had almost forgotten her pretty, fascinating story-self! Her dear, slow smile had almost lost itscunning. However, it returned, now, and drew the corners of the sternyoung mouth up pathetically. 

DEAR MADAM BUBBLE:

I am remembering everything and holding to it. I shut my eyes and Isee you standing by The Way with your face like the dogwood flowers inthe spring--shining and white and happy! That--er--way is how it isgoing always to look till I come back. No matter what happens to me;no matter how mighty hard things are, I am just going to stop short, when I feel I can't bear life, and shut my eyes and see you a-standingwaiting like what you said. I've met much kindness and a greatfriend--it's the noise and strangeness and many folks what turn mecrazy-like, but always when I shut my eyes--you come and it seems_home_ again. If I don't write, please Madam Bubble, know it's becauseI'm fighting hard to get something fit to bring to you when I comeback. And I reckon you better not write to me--I couldn't stand it. You know how I couldn't count the money till the time came! That isthe sort I am and, besides, I've got to find out what this--er--life isgoing to make me into. If I shouldn't be worthy to come up The Way toyou--you better not know. But I will be! I will be! Thank you forwhat you've done for me and most for letting me think you'll wait andbe ready. 

Cynthia dropped the letter in her lap--for she was crouching beneaththe tree. It was a badly written and much-soiled letter but no missivestraight from heaven could have performed a greater miracle upon her. A radiance flooded her face from brow to chin, and her eyes glistenedwith the happy tears that never overflowed the blue-gray wells thatheld them. 

"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer;"Sandy--'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way likewhat I said!"

There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation inthe girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender. Madam Bubble was herself again!

Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumnleaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. Therewas no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpectedbreaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meantto practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost itamong the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthiaspied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment shepushed her letter into it. 

"There!" she panted; "and I'll put my answers in it, too, and give themall to Sandy when he comes up The Way. "

But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl atthat moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between thismoment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and howwas she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems thatconfronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept fromthe door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. OldIvy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight inthe Walden "plot, " and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did notunderstand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a greatdeal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to questionwhere she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took topacing the upper balcony and repeating over and over:

"The hills--whence cometh my strength!"

It was quite fearful, but Cynthia had already learned to keep away fromher aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made mattersworse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured tocall at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorablethat the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at theouter door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked intothe hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowehad left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Waldenraised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strangeflashes of lucidity, overcame her. 

"Out!" she shouted--"it was all a lie--there never was a marriage!Never! Would you kill me and the child? Leave us alone. We will nottake the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!"

Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floorand with outstretched hands she moaned:

"He killed her! killed her! and I damned her; leave us alone!"

At that point Cynthia rushed into the room and caught the poor, old, shrinking form in her arms; then, with flashing eyes she turned uponMarcia Lowe. 

"Go!" she commanded with sudden courage and desperation. "Go! Don'tyou hear Aunt Ann?"

"You promised, little Cyn!" whined Miss Walden, "you promised!"

"I know--all about it!" Cynthia murmured, still keeping her fear-filledeyes upon the caller--"I, too, want you--to go away!"

Her training had fitted Marcia Lowe to understand and take alarm atwhat she beheld, but it also demanded that she leave at once. Sincethen Cynthia had never seen the little doctor, and the change in AnnWalden did not include another furious outburst such as that. 

The excitement of the letter faded when the magic sheet of paper washidden from sight, and stern necessity brought the severe lines back tothe thin, pale face. It was just at that moment that Smith Crotherscame down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves andbranches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off hishat. Whatever the girl felt and believed of the man was gained thoughindirect information--he had meant nothing personal to her before, andit was something of a surprise for her to realize that he was a goodlooking man and could smile in kindly fashion. 

"Little Miss Walden, " he said courteously, "I've just been a-hearinghow you-all suffered from the storm. Mr. Greeley done told me the oldlady is all around cracked!"

"Cracked!" The mountain interpretation of this word flooded Cynthia'sconsciousness like a flame that made plain all the subtle fear of thepast few weeks. That was it, of course! "All around cracked!"

"Oh!" came in a shuddering cry; "oh! oh! oh!"

"Now don't take on that-er-way, " comforted Crothers, coming nearer. "Us-all mean to stand by you. I expect you-all ain't over-rich either, and we-all can help in a right practical way. What do you say, littleMiss Cyn, to coming down to the factory and doing light work andgetting mighty good pay?"

A new horror shook Cynthia's pallid face; but Crothers met it with alaugh. 

"Don't take on without reason, " he soothed. "Ain't I done somethingfor the mountings?" he asked; "I know what some folks think about me, little Miss Cyn, but you be a right peart miss, and I ask you straightand true--wouldn't things be worse, bad as they be, if I didn't takefolks and pay 'em? Chillun is better 'long o' their mothers, whenall's said and done, and they don't have to come if they don't want to, and when they do come the work don't hurt them. Just 'nough to keep'em from mischief and me a-paying their parents for what is play to theyoung-uns. "

Cynthia thought of Sandy's moan over the baby-things of the factory andher eyes filled. She did not know, perhaps Sandy did not understand, but once he had said to her during a flight of fancy:

"Some day I'm going to gather them-all away from old Smith Crothers andsave them!"

"Come and see for yourself, little Miss Cyn. "

The tone was friendly and kind, and the actual necessity of the futuregripped Cynthia. 

"Come and see. I know what is due to you and your folks, Miss Cynthia;I don't ask you to work 'long of the others. I have work for you rightin my office where I can have an eye to your comfort and pleasure. Just copying letters and addressing envelopes and I will giveyou"--Crothers paused; his sudden desire was carrying him perilouslynear the danger point of being ridiculous--"I'll give you three dollarsevery week. Three whole dollars!"

With vivid memory Cynthia recalled the long years that it had taken toearn the three dollars for Sandy's venture and she gave a little gasp. 

"Three whole dollars! And you can get down to the factory after youmake the old lady comfortable, and I can let you have a littlemule--all for yourself--to tote you to and fro. "

"It's--it's very kind of you, Mr. Crothers, " Cynthia panted; "I'llask----" Then of a sudden she recollected that there was no one toask. For the first time in her life she was confronted by anoverpowering condition that she must meet alone! Just then a sharptouch of cold struck her as the changing wind found the thin place inher coarse gown. 

"I'll--I'll come, and thank you, Mr. Crothers, " she said in shakingvoice. "I'll come, next week!"

"Good!" cried Crothers, "and I'll send up the mule--we'll put its feedin saddle bags--I'll throw that in and----" the smile on the man's facealmost frightened Cynthia, though the words that followed seemed togive it the lie. 

"I'm going to have one of the men stack wood for you, too, and lay insome winter vegetables. I don't want you to think badly of me, littleMiss Cyn. I want to help you-all. "

When he had gone Cynthia drew a long breath, and shivered as thoughsome evil thing had threatened or touched her in passing, but an hourlater she was thankful her sudden impulse had led her to acceptCrothers' offer, for the wind changed and brought from its new quartera biting warning of winter. Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp, dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefullyup into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh thataroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that womanlearns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her ruggedhorse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a businessproposition. 

Sally was gathering wood behind her cabin with a fervour born of fearand knowledge. She knew what the change of wind meant and her woodpile was far from satisfactory. Long before Marcia Lowe came intosight the old woman stood up and listened with keen, flashing eyesalert. 

"Horse!" she muttered, and then rapidly considered "whose horse?"

Not the old doctor's from The Forge, for he never used up horseflesh inthat reckless fashion. His circuit was too far and wide for suchfoolish extravagance. 

"It's coming this-er-way!" Sally concluded, and since there was noother human habitation on that particular route but her own sherightfully appropriated the approaching visitor. With a quickness ofmotion one would not have suspected in such an old body, the woman raninto her cabin and, as a society belle might have rushed for her toilettable, Sally made for a closet in the corner of her living room. Fromthere she brought forth a can of vaseline and daubed some of thecontents artistically around her lips; then she tied over her shabbygown a clean and well-preserved apron and smoothed her thin, white hair. 

"Now, " she muttered, composedly taking her knitting and sitting beforeher hastily replenished hearth-fire; "now, I reckon who-sumever it maybe, will think I've had a po'ful feast o' po'k chops, judging from mymouf, an' no quality ain't mo' comfortable than I be?"

A smile of content spread over the old face as this vision ofrespectability enfolded the poor soul. At that moment Marcia Lowejumped from her horse, tied it to a tree and came rapidly up to theopen door. There was an anxious look in her eyes and the corners ofher lips drooped a trifle more than they did when she first rode up TheWay. The life of The Hollow was claiming her as it had her unclebefore her. As she looked in the cabin and saw the composed figure ofthe mistress a gleam of humour lighted her face and she secretlyrebelled at the sensation of lack of ease which often overcame her inthe presence of these calm, self-possessed "poor whites. "

"They are so inhumanly superior!" she thought, and then a kindlierfeeling came. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Taber. "

Sally looked up with an assumed surprise worthy of her race andtradition. 

"If it ain't Miss Lowe!" she exclaimed, coming forward cordially. "Itsho' am, Miss Lowe! Come in, ma'am and rest yourself. "

Sally's idioms savoured of darky dialect and her mountain quaintness:

"I'll brew a dish o' tea, ma'am. "

Marcia Lowe refused this attention and stayed Sally by her first words. 

"Miss Taber, I want you to help me out with a very difficult matter. No one can help me--but you!"

People might think what they cared to about this stranger from TroubleNeck--the men still distrusted her--but the women were rapidly beingwon to her. 

"I 'low you can count on me, ma'am. I says to myself often, saysI--Sally Taber, jes' so long as you can make a friend or do a'commodation job, you is useful to de community--when yo'can't--why--den!" And with that Sally gave a "pouf!" as if blowingaway a feather. 

Marcia Lowe could not keep her eyes from the shining, greased lips; shewas becoming acquainted with mountain peculiarities, but she wasperplexed by the neat Sally's daubed face. 

"It's about--Miss Walden, " she said softly, moving her chair closer toSally. 

"What's happened 'long o' her?" An anxious look crept into Sally'seyes. 

"I fear--she is not exactly right. "

"It's in the family, " Sally murmured; "when things go awry 'long o'them, they jes' naturally take to queerness. The ole general, MissAnn's father, he done think he was God-a'mighty, long toward the last. I kin see him now a-coming up The Way blessing us-all. They ain't noneo' them dangerous, jes' all around cracked, ma'am. "

"But the little girl, Miss Taber, she ought not to be alone there withMiss Walden. You see I have studied medicine and I know--it isdangerous and--it mustn't be. See here! I cannot do anything withoutmaking more trouble. I'm not one of them, but you could go and--well, just take control! Say that you--need shelter and help--you know MissWalden would do anything for her friends; put it that way andthen"--here Marcia Lowe laid some money in the old shrivelled hands, "there will always be money for you to buy what is necessary for thecomfort of you all. "

The keen eyes glittered, and the quick mind was caught by the subtletyof the suggestion. Here was a chance to play great lady; to returnfavours that long had been conferred upon her, and at the same timeretain her respectability and dignity. It was a master stroke andMarcia Lowe felt a glow of self-appreciation. 

"You can care for her, Miss Taber; you can see that Cynthia is properlylooked after, and you can give Miss Walden the joy of her life inthinking that she is able to help you. It is a pardonable bit ofdeceit, but will you assist me?"

After a decent show of hesitation, Sally decided that she would and, atthe close of the afternoon, was seated behind the little doctor--withher pitiful store of clothing, jogging in a bundle at her back, on theway to Stoneledge. Miss Lowe set her down at the trail leading up tothe old crumbling house, with these words:

"If ever my uncle did a kind deed, for you, Miss Taber, do this for himnow. "

Toting up the hill, Sally's thoughts wandered back to Theodore Starrand settled on a certain dark, cold night when he sat in her cabinpiling the wood on her fire, while she lay shivering with chill uponher wretched bed. All the charms had failed, the rabbit foot, underthe dripping of the north end of the roof had not eased a single pang, and hope was about gone when Starr chanced by. He had meant to ask fora bite and a night's shelter, for he was worn by travel and service, but instead he sat beside her the night through and fought death by thebravery of his spirit and the homely task of keeping warm the shiveringbody. He had put his coat over her and aroused her to interest andcourage. 

"The Lord does not let one of us off until our day's work is done, " hehad said even when he himself feared Sally's duties were over. 

"Ah' mighty right He war', " Sally now muttered, panting up the lastrise. "I reckon I got something yet to do. "

Her advent at Stoneledge was nothing less than consummate acting. Knocking at the kitchen door she responded to the call from within andstood before Ann Walden crouching by the fire, and Cynthia awkwardlytrying to evolve an evening meal from some materials on the table. 

"Miss Ann, I've come to ax mercy o' you. "

Miss Walden laughed foolishly. 

"Everything is plumb gone an' I got to tell some one o' my misery. Nothing to eat; nothing to hold onto 'cept a trifle o' money what I'seafraid to let any one know I'se got. Miss Ann, chile, there ain't anyone goin' to be s'prised at money coming from the Great House, so jes'let me bide long o' you an' lil' miss, for God's sake, ma'am. "

The old tie between the family and its dependents held true now eventhrough the growing mists of Ann Walden's brain. 

"Cyn, " she commanded, "get Ivy--where is Ivy? Tell her to make up abed for Sally in the loft over the kitchen. "

And then again she laughed that meaningless laugh. 

CHAPTER XI

Life in the Morley cabin was tense and dangerously vital. The cold hadsettled down now with serious intent; the door was permanently closedexcept of entrances and exits and the two small sliding windows in thefront and back of the living-room were never opened, and they werecoated with grease and dirt until even the brightest day filteredthrough but dimly. 

Martin was depressed and forlorn, he took what was offered him, askedno questions and seemed far and away from any hope of reassertinghimself. He brought water and wood indoors; he made and kept the fire;he slept on the settle before the hearth and always he was dreaming orthinking of Sandy. The letter that had, after many weeks, drifted tohim, had been read to him by The Forge doctor who happened to be ridingby when Martin tremblingly pleaded with him for help. 

"It's this-er-way, " Morley had explained, striving to hide the depthsof his illiteracy; "my eyes don' gone back on me. I reckon I better godown to The Forge and get specs, but jes' now I'd like to have light onthis yere letter. "

The doctor read poor Sandy's effusion with some emotion. With broaderexperience he saw the effort the boy had made to withhold his ownlonely state from the father. There was an attempt at cheer in thewords weighted, as the reader saw, with homesickness and longing. 

"Now, Morley, " he cautioned, when the letter was ended, "you keep yourhands off that boy. If there is a spark of love for him in your heart, let him fight his battle off there alone. He's found a good friend andit's his one chance. If you want to do anything for him keep yourselfabove water; have the family respectable for him to come back to. I'mnot much on prophesying, but remembering what you once were and whathis mother was, I have hopes of Sandy. "

No one knew or could have guessed that poor Martin was heeding thedoctor's words, but he was. He had stopped drinking. Not a drop ofliquor had passed his lips for weeks, and the craving was stronger attimes than Martin could endure. At such moments he stole to theoutshed and, gripping a certain little ragged jacket, which still hungthere, to his twitching face, would moan: "Oh! God, help me forSandy's sake. " Not for his own--but for Sandy's sake always. And Godheard and upheld the weak creature. 

Then came the night when Mary and Molly aroused Martin from his sleepas they came in about midnight. Martin had supposed them upstairs longbefore. He had come in at nine o'clock from the shed where he hadwrestled with his craving and, by the help of God, had come outvictorious once again. He had fallen asleep soon after and a vivid andstrange dream had held him captive by its power. Sandy had come to himclearly, and comfortingly; had sat close to him and laid his hand inhis. They had talked familiarly, and then suddenly the boy had asked:

"Dad, how about Molly? She belongs to us-all, you said. I've beenthinking about Molly; where is she?"

Just then the dream faded; the man on the hard settle pulled himselfup, looked dazedly at the almost dead fire and--listened! Some one wasfumbling at the door; some one was coming in! Martin's heart stoodstill for, with the dream fresh in his mind, he thought it was Sandy, and even through his sick longing for the boy a fear seized him. ButMary came into the dim room with Molly clinging to her. They tiptoedacross the floor toward the stairway and had almost reached it whenMartin flung a log of wood on the fire, and in the quick flash of lightthat followed stood up and asked in a clear, forceful voice:

"Whar you-all been?"

The strangeness and surprise took Mary off her guard, and she faltered:

"What's that to you, Mart Morley?"

Martin threw another log on the fire, as if by so doing he couldilluminate more than the cold black room. 

"What yo-all been doing? Molly, come here. "

Frightened and trembling the girl came forward. She looked far olderthan her years. Her bold, coarse beauty had developed amazingly duringthe past few months, and the expression on her face now roused all thedormant manhood in Morley's nature. Ignoring the woman by thestairway, he gripped Molly by the shoulders, and holding her so thatthe lurid light of the flaming logs fell upon her, he drove hisquestions into the girl's consciousness and brought alarmed truth forthbefore a lie could master it. 

"Whar yo' been, Molly?"

"Up to--to Teale's. "

"What--doing?"

"Dancing for 'em. "

Martin's eyes flashed. It was quite plain to him now--the hideous, drunken orgy, and this little girl fanning ugly passions into fire byher youth and beauty!

"You----" Morley rarely swore, but the eloquent pause was morethrilling than the word he might have spoken. While he clutched Molly, his infuriated eyes held Mary like something tangible, and drew herforth from her shadows. 

"She's--mine!" the woman panted. For the first time in her life shewas awed by Morley; "she's mine and--the devil's. That was the bargainand no questions asked. The devil pays good wages, Mart. We'll--we'llshare with you!"

The woman was actually whining and seeking to propitiate the man. 

"I've been true to you, Mart. Sure as God hears me, and 'taint causeI'm old and unsought either. I'll look after her, Mart--but--we-allhave got to live!"

Morley tried to control himself before he spoke, and finally managed tosay, not unkindly:

"Molly, you go upstairs. Shut--shut and lock the door!"

"Mart!" Genuine terror rang in Mary's tones. "Mart--she's mineand----"

"Go!" commanded Morley, and the child almost ran to do his bidding. Then alone the man and woman faced each other. Desperation gavecourage to Mary. If all were lost but her physical strength andbravado, then she must use them. 

"You did what you wanted to do with him as was yours, " she panted; "youhelped him away, and left us-all to starve. You leave--Molly to meand----"

"Stop!" cried Morley, unable to hear the brutal repetition. "You wouldsell the--the child to Teale and his kind?"

"It's the only way, Mart. I'll keep my hold on her--they----"

"You!" And then, driven by the outraged virtue of the suppressed andforgotten past, Morley gave expression to his emotions in the languageof The Hollow. For the first time in his life he struck a woman!

Once the deed was done he reeled back, calmed at once into frozenhorror. Mary staggered and fell. In falling she struck her headagainst the andirons on the hearth and lay quite, quite still while astream of blood from a cut behind the left ear mingled with the ashesand turned them dark and moist. It seemed hours that Morley looked andlooked before he could master himself and move toward the woman uponthe floor. Finally he listened to her heart, but his own pulsing earsdeceived him; he tried to raise her up, but his strength was gone, andhe let the lifeless body drop again on the hearth. Then a cravendesperation overcame him. Gone were his courage and power, like amaddened criminal he strode to the stairway and wrenched the lockeddoor from its hinges and sprang up to where Molly, sobbing and moaning, crouched in the far corner. 

"Come, " he whispered; "come!"

"Where's--mother?"

"Her's gone--to--Teale!" The lie rang out fiercely, boldly. Thenwrapping an old bedspread about Molly and keeping her close to him, hemade his way down the stairs and out of the house. Molly did not turnto look into the lower room, she believed Martin, and she was numb withterror. 

"Whar we-all going?" she panted, as Martin dragged her on. Thisquestion roused Morley. Up to that instant he had not considered wherehe was going; he only felt the necessity of flight. 

"To--to Trouble Neck, " he answered as if some one else were speakingthrough him. 

"To her as--as they call the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady. "

Molly did not speak again, but the answer had stilled somewhat her fearand anguish. By the time she and Martin reached the Trouble Neck cabinher uncanny shrewdness and cunning were well to the fore. 

The little clock on the mantelshelf had just struck two when MarciaLowe raised her tired eyes from the book spread out on the table beforeher. 

The one large room of the cabin was kitchen, dining-room, parlour, library; all that was not included in bed-chamber. The lean-to wasMarcia Lowe's sleeping apartment and a tiny room above reached only bya ladder from outside, served as a trim, cleanly resting-place for achance guest or a needy traveller. 

The little doctor lifted her aching eyes and took in the rude comfortof her home-place with a deep sigh. 

"Oh!" she whispered--for she had adopted the compromise of the lonelywoman and talked aloud to herself--"oh! if they could forget my sex!"

She was thinking of a conversation she had had with The Forge doctorthat very day. 

"I--I wish you would work with me, " she had pleaded; "they would acceptyou; obey what you say and--give me a chance. "

The doctor had laughed good-naturedly. Miss Lowe amused him hugely. She seemed to him like a child playing with sugar and bread pills. 

"My dear young lady, " he had said; "they'd shoot me, and with goodreason, if I let any petticoat Saw Bones tamper with them; no insultintended--only compliment, dear lady! Your books read like fairystories; I'm too old a hand to be taken in. The revised Bible, ma'am, is dangerous for souls, and new ideas in physic are about the same forbodies. I read when I can--but I'm too human to experiment on my kind. A few old remedies and a good stiff bluff are all that are neededup-er-here. Now as to you, my dear young miss, I'd have to put youunder lock and key or buy you a return ticket to thatfly-in-the-face-of-Providence state of yours if you tampered with thebodies of these people. That uncle of yours juggled considerable inhis day, but souls are one thing; bodies, another. "

Marcia Lowe now clasped her hands behind her tired head and raised hereyes to the low ceiling. 

"Just for one faithful soul!" she murmured; "no, one faithful body thatwould trust itself to me for--a month; a month! A few days ofstarvation; a magic little pill; a spell of patient waiting and then--amiracle. "

But no response came from the stillness of the night and Miss Lowe wasabout to make preparations for bed when a sound outside stayed her. Then came a knock on the door! She went to the small window beside thedoor, drew aside the dainty white curtain, opened it halfway and asked:

"Is that you, Hope?" She had promised Liza to bide with her when herhour came, but it was not Hope who replied:

"This is Martin Morley, ma'am. Me and lil' Molly. "

The door was opened at once and closed after the two. 

"Now, " said the little doctor, stirring the fire to greater effort andseeing that her callers had the easiest chairs in the room, "now, then, Mr. Morley. "

Molly followed every motion of Marcia Lowe with unchildlike interest. Fear was gone from the girl's face, but an alert sharpness marked it. 

"Can you give her, " Martin nodded toward Molly, "a bed for--forto-night? I have something to tell you. "

Marcia Lowe sensed that something serious lay behind the request, androse at once and went to Molly. 

"Come into my bedroom, " she said; "I can make you very comfy, I'm sure. Will you sleep with me?"

Molly nodded and followed meekly. After a time Marcia Lowe came backand, standing in front of Morley, said quickly:

"What is it?"

The haggard, haunted face was raised to her. 

"I've--I've done killed Mary!" he said simply. 

The little doctor shuddered, but controlled her features; her eyes didnot fall from the wretched man's face. 

"Tell me!" was all she said. Then Martin slowly in a hushed voice, described all that had passed, even the vision of Sandy. 

"The Lord-a'mighty, He knows I didn't mean to kill, " Martin quivered;"but who-all will believe that? I meant to stay clean and fair for theboy's coming back, Miss Lowe, ma'am, deed I did, and now he'll comeback to----" Martin could not frame the hideous truth in words; hegulped miserably and went on; "please, ma'am, keep--her, Molly, fromTeale and them-all!"

"And you?" So simply did the question come that the man replied inkind. 

"I--I can't let them-all cotch me, ma'am. Come morning, I'll be pasthurting any one, more. "

The childlike pathos in this criminal's voice and attitude confused thelistener. For the life of her she could not deal with the situation inany ordinary fashion; it seemed like a dramatic incident bungled byamateurs. Presently she asked gently:

"Are you _sure_ she is dead, Mr. Morley?"

The unreality held Martin, too. 

"I reckon she is, " he faltered; "I--I couldn't hear her heart--and shelaid right still. I expect she is dead. "

The ludicrous overpowered even the turn of possibility, and the littledoctor said:

"You just mustn't kill yourself or harm Sandy unless it is necessary, you know. If you will go out and harness my horse to the buggy, youand I will make sure. "

By the time Morley had mechanically fulfilled these commands, MarciaLowe had decided, from the sound of Molly's breathing, that she mightsafely be left alone, and, cloaked and hooded, joined Martin outside. 

It was a dreary ride, and the two spoke seldom. 

"You are to be no coward, Morley, " Marcia Lowe had said; "you're toface your future like a man--like Sandy's father. He will wellunderstand. I will stand by you and see fair play for you; I'll payfor a good lawyer, and you will take your medicine, whatever it is, andbe clean and decent for your boy and girl. I'll take care of Molly. "

After a time Martin agreed to this, but from the shivering of the formbeside her, the little doctor realized the struggle. 

And so they reached Morley's cabin and entered, like ghosts, into thefear-haunted place. Mary was gone. The fire was smouldering in thelast flashes, the damp ashes were drying--but Mary had made a bodilyescape. 

"So!" whispered Marcia Lowe. "It was better to make sure. Goupstairs, see if she is there. "

Mary was not there. 

"Now come back. "

Through the chill of the early morning the two drove silently back toTrouble Neck and with strange foreboding the little doctor made her wayat once to the lean-to bed-chamber--Molly, too, was gone! She had madeher way to Teale's, Miss Lowe felt sure. 

The next morning the news spread fast, garbled by many tongues. 

Teale's place had been raided! Teale had escaped and the Morleys hadaccompanied him. 

"Well!" said Sally Taber to Cynthia; "I 'spect Mart Morley had to gethis livin' somehow. The yaller streak's got the best of him. "

Cynthia made no reply. Oddly enough in her fancy she was gazing uponthe portrait of "The Biggest of Them All. "

CHAPTER XII

Martin Morley slept, in the clean loft over Marcia Lowe's living-room. There was a good warm bed there, and before he had gone up the ladderto his much-needed rest, the little doctor had fed him and given himhot coffee to drink. 

"You are safe, " she had comforted him. "God has been good to you, Martin Morley. Molly is with her mother and, sad as it is, we can donothing more for her. Forget it all, and to-morrow you and I willconsider the future. "

So Martin slept and slept, and the front door of the cabin was keptclosed and locked. 

Refreshed and humble, Martin, on the evening of the following day, cautiously crept down the ladder from his loft-chamber and tapped uponthe outer door of the cabin. 

It was a very smiling and trim little body that welcomed him and badehim sit down to a table laid for an evening meal. 

"You see I've waited for you, Mr. Morley; we have a slice of ham, somehot biscuits, and baked potatoes. There's a loaf of cake, too, andcoffee and a try at a pudding for which my mother used to be famous. "

Every nerve of Martin's starved stomach thrilled, but his eyes did notmeet Marcia Lowe's. 

"You are feeling better, Martin Morley?"

"Yes, ma'am; thank you, ma'am. "

"Well, then I want you to share my meal. "

"I--I ain't worthy, ma'am. I can never pay you, ma'am, for what you'vedone and meant to me. I'm ready to go now, ma'am. "

"Where, Martin Morley?" The little doctor was pouring the coffee, andthe odour made Morley dizzy with longing. 

"I ain't just settled in my mind as to that, ma'am. The world's big, beyond The Hollow. "

"Too big for you, Mr. Morley, until you are yourself--your best selfagain. And you can pay me--I have my bill ready. "

Martin eyed her furtively and tried to steady his hand as he reachedout for the plate of savoury food she was passing to him. They atesilently for a while, then Marcia Lowe tried to cheer him by scraps ofgossip that had drifted to her during the day. 

"They think you have gone with Teale, " she said with a little laugh;"the idea of your flying off in that company! Have another potato, Mr. Morley; the staying power of a baked potato is simply marvellous. "

When the meal was finished and the dishes put away, Marcia Lowe facedher gloomy guest with deep, serious eyes. 

"You feel you owe me something, Mr. Morley?" she asked. They weresitting opposite each other by the hearth; a pouring rain dashedagainst the window and a rising wind howled through the trees. A sleekyellow cat turned around two or three times and then settledcomfortably at Marcia Lowe's feet and purred happily. 

"I do that, mum. "

"You are--willing to do something for me--for Sandy, but most of allfor yourself?"

Morley was becoming accustomed to the little doctor's quaint way ofputting questions, but her manner still puzzled him. 

"Yes, ma'am, " he answered confusedly. 

"Then listen, Martin Morley. I want to save you, first of all foryourself--next for that boy of yours, who, I somehow feel confident, will come back to honour us all. I believe I can do what I have inmind--there is a little risk, very little, but will you run it for me?"

Morley's thin face twitched. Many emotions swayed him. Doubt, suspicion, superstition, the ingrained revolt of sex--the maleresenting this power of the female--all, all held part in Morley'smind, weakened by trouble and malnutrition, but above all was theinnate yearning to prove himself for Sandy. Martin had the supremeinstinct of parenthood. 

"You know you were willing to die for him, Mr. Morley. Are you notwilling to run the chance of a better, cleaner life?"

Marcia Lowe was bending forward now, her face radiant and inspired--shelooked young, lovely and compassionate. 

"I--I--don't follow you, ma'am. " Poor Martin was caught in the toilsof the enthusiast. 

"Then listen. I have studied and--conquered to a certain extent--agreat and noble help for humanity--but I am hampered in my work becauseI am a woman. Oh! no one--no man can understand how terrible it is forus women to look beyond the man and woman part of life and see _humanbeings_ needing us, crying out to us, and for us, to realize that oftenwe might help, in our own way best of all--if only something, overwhich we have no control, did not bar us. You see, men have no rightto deprive human beings of any assistance the world can give. If wewomen tell men of our hopes and our beliefs, they accept or decline asthey think best--and so much is lost! Why, I have been pleading withThe Forge doctor ever since I came, to work with me in doing what Ilong to do, and he will not--he laughs! I am not rich enough orimportant enough to bring a big doctor from my home to do this thingfor you, all that I could do alone. So here I stand with, I solemnlybelieve, a precious gift and I--I--cannot give it to you because--youwon't trust a woman!"

Marcia Lowe was talking far and beyond Morley; he stared bewildered ather, but something within himself was reaching out and touching, withsoul-intensity, the tragic appeal from the little woman opposite. 

"Uncle Theodore Starr came here because he loved his kind and felt thatyou all needed him most. Because you had no choice, he believed youwould accept him. Can you remember how he worked among you? served youand died for you?"

"I--do, mum!" An old sense of gratitude gave force to the words. 

"Well, I feel as he did, only I want to mend your poor, sick bodies;make you strong enough to want to help yourselves like men and women!I want you to know that you have _souls_. "

But now Martin was lost again. The stare settled on his face and onlythe hypnotism of the woman across the hearth guided him. Marcia Lowesaw this, and grew desperate. 

"Oh! dear, what shall I do?" she cried helplessly. "Can I say anythingthat will make you understand? The thing I have is safe and sure. Itmight go wrong with you--only _might_--but I want, I must have, yourconsent. Just suppose it did go wrong with you, but that you knew itwould help hundreds of others--would you be willing to try?"

Morley did not attempt an answer. 

"Let me put it another way!" and now the little doctor arose and stoodin the full glow of the fire, while the roar of the wind and theflaring of the red light filled the room with sound and colour. Theslim, pale woman looked very weak and small to be the leading actor inthis tragic drama of the hills, and the big, stupidly staring manopposite seemed very insignificant as a great sacrifice. 

"See, I will put it this way. They call me the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Ladybecause--I give them all a little drink of water and it makes thembetter! I made the little Hope boy well; ask Liza, she knows. I gaveyour Sandy a cup of cold water and it helped his throat--I could havehelped him more, poor boy, if he had not gone away. Martin Morley, Iwant to give _you_ a cup of cold water--oh! please trust me! You mustdo what I ask you to do--just for one little week. It will be hard, but I will watch with you and share every suffering hour. I will nurseyou and care for you as a daughter might, and then, at the end, Ibelieve as truly as God hears me, that you win stand straight and takeyour place--_your_ place--among men!"

"A charm?" Morley panted, for he was quite overcome by the powerexerted over him. 

Full of zeal and trust, seizing upon anything to gain her end, MarciaLowe replied:

"Exactly--a charm! See!" and suddenly she turned to the closet besidethe chimney-place; taking out a small bottle she held it up to thelight with a glow of reverence upon her uplifted face. "Fifteen tinygrains of this!"

Morley was fascinated. 

"Fifteen grains, " he repeated, like a man talking in hissleep--"fifteen grains!"

"Yes, yes! and then you must have--faith! You know you always _must_have faith in charms. "

Morley assented to this. 

"Will--you--will you try?"

"I--reckon I will, mum!"

"Will you promise? Oh! If I have ever done anything to make yougrateful, promise! promise!"

"I promise!"

From that night the cure began. Shut away against the mountain-world, favoured by one of the hill storms, prolonged and depressing, thelittle doctor tested her charm. She was nurse and companion as well asphysician. Willing to do battle and take the consequences for thefaith that was in her, she wrestled with her problem. Men had proventhe thing elsewhere--why not she, here among her dead uncle's people?

"You cannot eat until I tell you to, Martin Morley, " she said. 

For the first day or so the weakened man, used to deprivation, made nodemur; then his haggard face and imploring eyes pleaded for food, andon the third day he asked for it, cried for it like a starving child. This wrung Marcia Lowe's heart. 

"Oh! we women, " she whispered to herself scornfully; "I declare I mustput a watch upon myself or I will find myself going to the cupboard andbetraying the faith of Doctor Marcia Lowe!"

Then she resorted to subterfuge, and playfully bullied poor Morley. 

"See! If I do not eat, can you not keep me company? What manners haveyou, Martin Morley, to eat while a lady starves?"

The wretched fellow tried to smile, but wept instead. 

After that, Marcia Lowe rarely left the room; never unless Morleyslept. She stole like a thief to her closet and ate her food when, andas she could. 

"It's the nurse of Martin Morley who refreshes herself, " she thoughtcomfortingly. 

It was on the fifth evening of the battle with the deadly foe of themountain poor-whites, that Marcia Lowe heard a knock upon her cabindoor. So alone and absorbed had she been for the past few days that ademand from the outer world startled and annoyed her. Martin wassleeping--he lay in the lean-to chamber--so on tiptoe the little doctorwent to answer the summons. 

The storm had passed unnoticed by Marcia Lowe, and a bright starryheaven lay behind the tall figure of Tod Greeley on the doorstep. 

"Oh! Come in, come in!" whispered Marcia--and oddly enough she felt aglow of relief and welcome. Greeley came in and grimly took a chair bythe cheerful fire on the ashless hearth. 

"I've come on a mighty unpleasant errand, ma'am, " he said; "and I ain'tone as can pass around sweets before the bitters. "

All the way to Trouble Neck Greeley had arranged this speech, and themedical flavour of it had given him courage. 

"You're very kind to come yourself, Mr. Greeley, " Marcia Lowe wassmiling; "another might not have been so welcome. And now for thebitter! I'll gulp it bravely, for I like sweets better. "

She sat down in her own rough little rocker, and swayed calmly to andfro. 

"Well, mum, the County Club, in session down to the store, delegated meto call on you. Leastway, I done told them I reckoned no one else_but_ me should come first!"

"Thank you again, Mr. Greeley. "

"Since the raid on Teale's----" Tod drawled uncomfortably--"there'sthem as is scared. I ain't standing up or setting down for them SpeakEasies back o' The Hollow, but business is business, and no man knowswho's going to get struck so long as----" Greeley glanced cautiouslyabout--"so long as--you're hiding what you _are_ hiding!"

For a moment Marcia Lowe tried to readjust her thoughts and get theminto some sort of connection; finally she laughed, laughed so long andso noiselessly that Greeley grew nervous. 

"Lord, ma'am!" he faltered, "you can't afford to take it that-er-waylest you've got your place _full_ of 'em!"

"Oh! Mr. Greeley. They think, the club thinks I have something to dowith the raid? Why I did not know, until some one told me, that therehad been one. Come, I want you to see what I am hiding!"

She motioned her guest to the doorway of the lean-to. 

"Look!" she whispered. 

For a moment Greeley did not recognize the wan, helpless creaturehuddled on the bed; so small, so pitiful was the unconscious man thathe seemed a stranger. Then in amaze and half terror, Tod breathed:

"Mart Morley! What you--doing--to--him?"

Marcia Lowe's eyes were full of tears, and her trembling lips werehardly able to frame the words:

"I'm helping him to lead his people back to their heritage! Oh! you donot understand; but he and I--with God on our side, are fighting--justplain fighting a--a worm!"

At that moment Morley stirred and opened his hollow, starving eyes. 

"Food, " he gasped in a voice Greeley never forgot; "God-a'mighty--food!"

Then Greeley beheld a miracle. He saw Marcia Lowe run to the fire inthe living-room and bring to the bedside of the sick man a tiny kettleof some smooth liquid; he saw her dip a spoon in and then hold it tothe lips of Morley. She had forgotten Greeley; forgotten all but theman upon the bed. 

"Slowly, slowly!" she whispered; "we've won! we've won! There! there!It's going to be all right from now on--the charm's worked!"

Awed and afraid, Greeley tiptoed from the house, and all the way backto the waiting County Club he muttered like a half-wit:

"Fighting a worm! Fighting a worm!"

CHAPTER XIII

The day that civilization and education took Sandy Morley into itskeeping, saw Cynthia Walden astride Crothers' mule jogging down The Wayto the factory. Sandy, arrayed in immaculate attire, was borne to hisschool among the New Hampshire hills by train and coach. He wasdesperately lonely; thoroughly frightened, but he was well in body;healthfully sustained by good food, and he had so much money in hispockets that he was in deadly fear of being waylaid and robbed. Cynthia, on the contrary, was dressed in a shabby gingham gown freshlylaundried and stiffly starched, but much mended, and her pocket wasguiltless of money. She had no fear of being attacked, so she sangsweetly and joyously as she bobbed about getting her blood circulating, for the old coat and hood she wore were pitifully inadequate for thecrisp weather. Cynthia was young and hope led her on; besides, she hadjust deposited a most poetic letter to Sandy in the hole of the tree. Old Sally Taber had smoothed the problem of Stoneledge for the timebeing, and there was going to be plenty of money now that Crothers hadopened the way for Cynthia to employ her talents!

Cynthia tried the bird-note Sandy had conquered so successfully. 

"Why don't we-all have birds in winter 'stead of summer?" babbled MadamBubble from her mule; "and moons on dark nights, and hot suns atChristmas?" Then she laughed, and the laugh left the dear, slow smileas a reminder after the joyous sound died away. 

"The Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady is in the church, " Cynthia exclaimedsuddenly as she neared Theodore Starr's small edifice from whosechimney smoke was rising. Then she kicked the fat sides of her muleand turned her supercilious head aside in order to escape Marcia Lowe'seyes, were they scanning The Way. 

"It's right noble of her to take care of Sandy's father, " the just mindgranted; "but Aunt Ann and I--must do without her!"

A touch of yearning lay in the words. Cynthia needed what Marcia Lowemight mean to her, and only loyalty to Ann Walden restrained her. 

But Marcia Lowe did not see Cynthia pass. For months now, through thedoors and unbarred windows, the light and air had come into the littlechurch, and the spirit of Theodore Starr had, in some subtle manner, been permitted to live again. People dropped in occasionally and satand thought of the dead parson. Sometimes Marcia Lowe welcomed themand coaxed them to tell her of her dear uncle. She always sat in whatshe called "the minister's pew, " and there were times in her lonelydetached life when she seemed to see the calm, fine face looking downat her from the poor pulpit. He never looked the weak man who wasafraid of Ann Walden; to his loving niece he was ever the strongbrother-of-men who had died while serving them not worthy of him! AsCynthia rode by, Marcia was building a fire in the drum stove, latelyplaced in the church, and singing, prayerfully, a favourite hymn. 

 "Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of Nature newly born; Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the dawn. 

 "So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee. "

The fire responded and outside the shadows of the dark trees of The Wayenshrouded Cynthia as she hurried on. 

That day in the factory was the hardest day of Cynthia's life. To ayoung girl born in freedom, be that freedom of the meanest, theconfinement and authority were deadly. Then, too, to witness theutilization of the baby-things that were mere cogs in the machinery ofCrothers' business, hurt the mother-heart of the girl cruelly. At thenoon hour she tried to make the sad little creatures play--but they hadforgotten how, if they ever knew; they, stared at her with wonderingeyes; ate all of her lunch she offered, and shivered in their thinclothes by the wretched fire in a shed provided for their leisure time. 

"Oh, Sandy, Sandy, " murmured Cynthia as she looked about, "I'll helpyou get them away from here some day. "

A new fear and hate of Crothers grew in her heart as she impotentlysuffered for the children, but Crothers was as gentle and kind to heras any wise and considerate father could have been. He was patientwith her bungling and errors; he did not turn her off to his clerks forinstruction, he spent his own time upon her. Every moment that he wasnear her Cynthia trembled, and when he accidentally touched her sherecoiled sharply. Crothers noticed this, and at first it angered him;then caused him much amusement. Unconsciously the girl was fanninginto sudden and violent flame that which might have slumbered on formonths. Before the end of the first week Crothers had noticed howlovely Cynthia's shining braids were as they twined around her pretty, bent head. His eyes grew thoughtful as he noted the lines of thesoftly rounded shoulders and dainty girlish bosom. The little dent inthe back of the slim neck was like a dimple and even the smallroughened hands were shapely and beautiful. 

"How old are you, little miss?" Crothers asked her the third day of herbusiness life, and Cynthia fearing that her youth might prove anobstacle answered blindly:

"Going on--fourteen!" She looked more, for her South, in spite of allher meagre upbringing, had developed her rapidly. Crothers smiledindulgently. 

When Saturday night came four dollars was handed to Cynthia by Crothershimself. 

"It was to be three, " she said, holding the money toward him. He tookthe fingers in his, closed them over the bills, and said:

"Just a little present for a nice little girl who has tried so hard tobe good. "

Cynthia drew back and her eyes flashed dangerously. 

"I do not want it!" she said quickly, and flung a dollar on the desk. "I only want what is mine!" After she had gone Crothers swore a little;then laughed. The laugh was more evil than the oath, but no one wasthere to hear. 

Cynthia had no one to speak to about her fear and loathing of Crothers. Besides, she had entered upon her career and dared not turn back. Shedid not understand herself, nor the man who was her employer; she didnot understand conditions nor the yearnings that possessed her; sheonly knew that she must fight against becoming a poor white, and learnto overcome the limitations of her birth, and Crothers seemed her onlychance. On the long rides to and from the factory she thought often ofher poor mother and wondered about her bad father. She wished she hadlearned more about them while Ann Walden was capable of telling her. The time was past now when the mistress of Stoneledge could impart anyreliable information to the girl. When the weather permitted the oldwoman paced the upper balcony crooning to the hills, and as cold andstorm shut her inside she seemed only happy in the library. So SallyTaber, reinforced by the money which supposedly she so miraculously hadsaved, had the room made habitable. Mason Hope was coaxed into givingsome of his valuable time to the repairing and by mid-winter the placewas comfortable. 

"Ole miss is jes' a plain moon-chile now, " Sally confided to MarciaLowe at one of their private conferences; "it's right silly to opposeher. "

"Yes, give her everything you can, Sally, and oh! if she ever hasflashes of reason get her to talk and--remember what she says!"

"Deed and deed I will, " promised Sally. "And if she ever do get herwits back it will be in dat ole libr'y-room. She acts right human tharat times. "

Marcia Lowe was sorely puzzled about Cynthia those days. If she wereonly sure that Ann Walden would never recover her reason she would takeher chances with the girl and plead Theodore Starr's cause, but with noactual proof, and with Ann Walden's evident past instruction toCynthia, she hesitated to make her own claims. Then, too, there weretimes when doubt rose in her mind, not as to her uncle, but Cynthia'sparentage. There might never have been a child born to Queenie Walden. The Hollow story of adoption might be true after all. That would haveaccounted for old Miss Walden's bitter resentment. It was all verydifficult and confusing, but in the meantime she could love the girl, and do, indirectly, for her what personally she could not. 

Oftener and oftener the little doctor went to the church by The Way and"sat with Uncle Theodore, " as she put it. It was less lonely there;the store was near by and the passers-by were becoming more friendly. Occasionally they dropped in. Tod Greeley and old Townley more thanthe others, and chatted sociably. Marcia Lowe had much to be gratefulfor, and when, one morning two weeks after Morley had been pronouncedcured by his faithful doctor-nurse, he came to her, as she sat in thechurch, and said quietly:

"Miss Lowe, I'm going up yon----" pointing to his own cabin, seen nowbetween the bare trees, "to straighten it up a bit, " she wept as if herheart would break. Martin did not witness the outbreak; he had setforth upon his task. Marcia Lowe was alone and upon her knees. 

"Dear God!" she repeated over and over; "dear God! he is saved. He'llopen the way to others. "

Martin Morley went upon his new course unheeded for a time, for atragic happening to Cynthia and a calamity to the community threw thelittle doctor and many others into chaos. 

Cynthia had been a month in Crothers' factory, when one late afternoonhe said to her:

"Little miss, could you bide at The Forge tonight?" Cynthia startedback and looked at him. 

"It's this-er-way; you've become mighty helpful to me and I've got abatch of letters to get off by the morning's mail. It looks like thereis going to be snow, too, and I'd hate to keep you late and then sendyou toting home after dark. Now if you can stop over and work 'long o'me till--say ten o'clock, we can finish the work and I'll set you downsafe and sound at my boarding-house for a good night's rest. "

Cynthia gave her usual shudder and sought about for an excuse. Sheknew Crothers' boarding-house keeper; knew her to be a decent soul whohad more than once, lately, brought a hot meal to her at midday whenshe brought Crothers'. There was snow in the air, too, and a late ridethrough the woods at night was almost more awful than to stay at thefactory. 

"They-all will worry, " she faltered in her pretty, slow way. 

"I sent word by Hope's boys, " Crothers reassured her, "they've justgone. I knew I could depend upon you. "

Cynthia struggled to control herself, and finally gave her smile andshrugged her shoulders. 

The mistress of the boarding-house brought to the factory a piping hotsupper for two at seven o'clock. She seemed to know all aboutCynthia's proposed stay, and showed no sign of misunderstanding it. 

"You better fotch the chile in 'bout nine, " she suggested to Crothersas she went out; "she do look clean beat now. Quality don't last outat work like trash do; they certainly do tucker out sooner. "

Crothers bade the garrulous woman a pleasant good night, and then sethimself busily to the task of mastering a pile of correspondence on hisdesk. Cynthia went to the little table by the window that served asher writing-desk and asked quietly what she should do. Crothers handedher a list of names and a package of envelopes and told her to addressthem. The old clock on the wall ticked away comfortably; the warmthand the late hearty meal combined to drive away fear and apprehensionof, she knew not what, and Cynthia was soon absorbed in the task sether. 

Presently the kerosene lamp on her table flickered and went out; thenglancing over at Crothers' back she asked timidly:

"Please, may I sit by your desk, sir? The light's failed. "

Crothers turned about and smiled at the pale little creature in theshadows. 

"Come right along, little miss! Here, let me fetch your chair. There, now!"

Seated at the end of the flat-topped desk, Cynthia tried to resume herwork, but the unrest of the early afternoon possessed her and she felta tear roll down her cheek--the cheek nearest the man at her left side. 

What happened after that Cynthia never could tell clearly; she onlyknew that a large, hot hand wiped the tear away and a burning kiss fellupon her cheek!

Horrified, and shaking with fear, the girl sprang to her feet andreached the opposite side of the desk near the window looking outtoward The Way. She had but one thought: she would break the windowand make a dash for safety! But Crothers was upon his feet also. Hedid not offer to come nearer, but he leaned over the desk and saidquietly:

"What you afraid of, lil' girl?"

"You!" The word was like a hiss. 

"Of me? Can't you give me a kiss? I don't want to hurt you; I'm yourbest friend; why, see here, I'll give you a right smart new coat andhat and dress--for a kiss; just a little kiss. "

Cynthia's eyes seemed fastened to the smiling, cruel face, but she didnot tremble now. Calmly, clearly, she was thinking what she could takewith which to defend herself. 

"Just--one--more--kiss--lil' girl, " and now Crothers was coming aroundthe corner of the desk. It seemed like some fearful nightmare, butCynthia was ready!

"Just one--more--kiss right on the pretty mouth!" The large, whitehands were extended and the teeth showed through the red lips. At thatinstant Cynthia seized the lighted lamp which stood near, and withdesperate strength flung it toward the reaching body! There was acrash, a curse, a fall, and then the room was blotted out by darkness. 

For a moment there was a deathlike stillness and in it the girl crepttoward the door, unfastened it and gained the open. There werefeathery snowflakes in the air and they touched Cynthia's face likeholy kisses, wiping away the evil one that had burned there but amoment before. Groping and running she reached The Way and, frombehind a tree, paused to take breath. Never had she felt moreself-possessed or secure; her mind was clear and sane. If Crotherscame out, she could outstrip him in a race for the boarding-house, andshe meant to go to the boarding-house that night! Something within herguided her now; something was protecting her and saving her--it was theWoman Cynthia was by and by to be!

As the girl by the tree panted and reasoned, she saw, from the factorywindow--the window of Crothers' office--a darting tongue of light;another followed and in a moment the glass was ruddy--and smoke wasissuing from the door left open when she ran out. 

"The place is on fire!" Then--"why does he not come out?"

For a moment only a madness seized Cynthia while hate and revenge hadtheir way:

"Let him die!" she muttered, setting her teeth close and gripping herhands; "let him!"

But even as the words were spoken she was running back to the factory. She rushed into the smoke-filled hallway and, by the light of the fire, she saw Crothers lying full length where he had fallen. The flameswere feasting on the rug by the desk and the unconscious man's head layupon that rug!

Cynthia knelt beside Crothers and called his name, but the ugly smilinglips made no motion of reply. Then she seized him under the arms andfrantically tugged and tugged at the heavy body. The flames werealmost at her feet, the wool of the carpet had caught first and thelicking tongues followed the burden she bore, greedily. At last shewas at the door; outside, and the safe, black night surrounded them!She lay Crothers down and breathed fast and hard. The snowflakes werelarger; thicker now, and there was a harshness in their touch. 

Presently Cynthia began to call louder and louder, and the fire gainingpower lighted the night and crackled merrily. 

"Help! help! help!"

And help came. First on the scene were the boarding-house mistress andher sons; then followed others of The Forge, and soon a group hadgathered and were aimlessly running about, giving orders and foolishlybemoaning the havoc that was spreading. 

Quite calm and uncaring Cynthia answered the questions put to her. Shedefended herself without once realizing that she was doing so. 

"Crothers got up suddenly--and fell!" she said to the mistress of theboarding-house who was working over the man on the ground, bathing hisface with snow and slapping his hands with her own rough ones. 

"Yes, the lamp overturned--and the fire was so quick!"

"Yes, I could not let Crothers die; I had to pull him out!"

Then a man near by said:

"Plucky little devil. " The words rang in Cynthia's ears strangely. Why did they praise her? What had she done? She wanted Crothers todie. Now that he was out of the fire, she did not want to see his eyesopen again, and yet she was straining her own to get the first sign inhis. Of a sudden Crothers looked full at her wonderingly, dazedly, andat that sight Cynthia fled, and, in the confusion, no one missed her. She did not go to the shed for her mule, she made for The Way uncloakedand unhooded and ran for her life until, overcome by weariness, shepaused to take breath. Looking back she saw only a dull glow where thefactory had stood and black smoke was rolling thick up into the pure, falling snow. 

It was fear of Man that haunted Cynthia as she toiled up the hillside;Man as he had loomed first on her horizon, cruel, seeking, and selfish. When the hard branches of the tree touched her she stifled a scream, for they felt like the demanding hands of Man; when a hungry animaldarted across her path she recoiled, remembering another animal withface and form of Man. 

It was three o'clock in the morning when Cynthia left The Forge--thoughhow the hours had passed from nine till three she was never able toexplain;--it was eight o'clock when she passed Andrew Townley's cabinand saw smoke curling from his chimney. Sensation was slowly returningto her; she felt cold, weak, and hungry, but with the senses arousedshe realized that she could not go home! She could not face AnnWalden's vacant stare, or Sally Taber's coarse cheerfulness. In allher world she was alone, alone! But even as she thought this her wearyfeet were bearing her to Theodore Starr's little church which was neverlocked by day or night. She reached the door at last, and with all herremaining strength pushed it open and staggered up to where the stepsled to the small raised altar. Dropping down she bent her aching headupon her arm and sobbed:

"Father! Mother!" simply because in all God's world no other wordscame to her relief. 

Theodore Starr's little daughter had come to him quite naturally in herfirst great sorrow!

CHAPTER XIV

And there Marcia Lowe found her. Fortunately the little doctor wentearly to the church, for she had conceived of a Christmas such as TheHollow had never known, and it seemed fitting that Theodore Starrshould be the host!

Quite merrily she entered and went directly to the stove to start afire. As she drew near, the outstretched form of Cynthia Walden caughther eyes and she cried aloud in astonishment and fright. At first shethought the girl was frozen to death, for she lay so still and her thinclothing was evidence of the danger run. 

"Dear heart! dear heart!" whispered Miss Lowe, overcoming her desire totake the girl in her arms until she had made a fire. Once the genialheat began to spread Marcia Lowe set a kettle of water on the stove andthen gave her maternal instincts full play. She gathered the slightform close and kissed again and again the thin oval cheek and closeshut mouth. 

"Poor little, little girl!"

The warmth and sound stole into Cynthia's far place and summoned herback. Her first look was full of terror; her second was one ofunearthly joyousness, and then because the woman of Cynthia had no needto battle longer for her, the child made its claims and, clinging andsobbing to the little doctor she moaned again and again:

"I am so afraid; so afraid!"

It was long before Miss Lowe could quiet her. She wrapped her heavycoat about her and forced some drops of hot water between the stiff, chilled lips. Then she bathed the face and hands gently with watercooled with snow, murmuring tenderly meanwhile:

"Dear little girl; poor little Cynthia! It's all right now. "

When the girl was soothed and comforted she went to the store to buyfood--anything to be had, for she knew instinctively that whatever wasthe cause, Cynthia had tasted no food that day. 

"Come back soon!" moaned the girl crouching by the stove, "I am soafraid. "

After she had eaten some stale crackers, soaked in diluted condensedmilk, Cynthia sat up, still and pale, and faced Marcia Lowe dumbly, imploringly. 

"Can you tell me, little Cyn?"

"No!" The voice was distant and monotonous. 

"But something has happened, dear. I want to help you. "

"The factory--is burned down!" A shudder ran over the rigid youngfigure. Marcia Lowe saw that she might hope to win her way if she didnot startle the benumbed mind. 

"Were you hurt, dear? Was any one hurt? When did it happen? How didyou hear?"

After each question Marcia waited, and then put another. Still thatfixed, steady gaze. 

"I--I was there. It was night. He--he kissed me--don't look likethat! look away! your eyes hurt me!"

Marcia came closer and took the girl in her arms. 

"Now, darling, " she whispered, "close your eyes and I'll closemine--there are only you and I and--God here. "

"He--he kissed me, Crothers did! Then he wanted me to dosomething--oh! I do not know what, but something he thought I coulddo--I felt it, and--and I threw the lamp at him. It was lighted and hewent down in a heap and I--I ran right hard, but I went back and pulledhim out when the fire started. I do not know why--for I want him outof the world. I shall be afraid always while he is in the world!"

"It's all right now, little Cyn, all, all right. "

This only could the horrified woman repeat over and over, as she swayedto and fro with closed eyes and Cynthia on her breast. 

Vividly she seemed to see the late scene. The helpless girl; thebrutish man; the lonely night shutting them in and only a miracle tosave. Details did not matter, and the miracle had come, but the aftereffects were here and now. 

It was near noon before Marcia Lowe dared take Cynthia away from theshelter of the church, and when she did so she chose an hour when allbut Greeley were absent from the store, and he was in the rear, eatinghis dinner. 

"You must come to Trouble Neck, little Cyn, " she said firmly; "you'llbe safe there, and we must think this out. "

Cynthia made no demur, and wrapped in Marcia Lowe's coat--Marcia had alighter one beside--she clung close to the little doctor and walked thethree miles to Trouble Neck without a word of complaint. 

"It's plain good luck, " Marcia Lowe thought, "that Martin Morley is outof hospital. " And then she smiled grimly up into the girl-face besideher, for Cynthia was fully as tall as she. 

It was late afternoon when Tod Greeley strode over to Trouble Neck forno particular reason. Outside the door he stood and listened tolow-spoken words and snatches of song. 

"'Taint nowise normal, I reckon, " mused he; "a woman's tongue and mindhas got to have some one to hit up against, or the recoil is going todo some right smart damage to the woman herself. " Then he knocked, andwent in at the word of command to enter. 

"Just conversationing with yourself?" he asked. 

"Yes. Poor company's better than none. Sit down, Mr. Greeley; you'realways welcome. "

"I brought some news. Crothers' factory is plumb burnt to the ground. "

"Land sakes!" ejaculated the little doctor in the idiom of her hometown; "any damage besides the factory?"

"Crothers is right used up. They say he tipped over the lamp in hishurry to get up and--things happened. "

"Dear suz!" Marcia Lowe was lapsing into old-fashioned speech. 

"And Miss Lowe, little Miss Cynthia was thar after hours! They do sayshe acted like she was possessed. She pulled Crothers out of theflames and saved his life I reckon--that is, if it _is_ saved! Heain't perked up much yet, 'cording to reports. But Miss Lowe--littleMiss Cyn ain't come home! I'm tumble feared lest she went back againfor something, and----"

Miss Lowe got up from her chair and cautiously motioned Tod to thedoorway of the lean-to. 

"Look!" she whispered. Greeley expected still to see Martin, butinstead he saw the delicate, sleeping face of Cynthia Walden. He drewback with a stifled cry. 

"That there room o' yours, " he faintly said when he reached thefireside again, "is right nerve-racking. It's like one of themJack-boxes at Christmas. "

"She only stopped here because she was tired. When she awakens I willtake her home, " explained Miss Lowe. 

Greeley was nonplussed, but when he was in doubt he turned the subjectand talked more than usual. 

The following day Cynthia was taken home. Providence and the strainand excitement saved her from serious harm, but when Marcia Lowe lefther by the gate of Stoneledge there seemed to be something tragic inthe fact that after such an experience, no explanations were necessary. Ann Walden was past any earthly worriment, and Sally Taber could notunderstand then, or ever, the soul-hurt little Cynthia had received. 

"It's good friends now and always, little Cyn?"

"Yes, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

They stood by the dilapidated gate. 

"And you will come often to Trouble Neck?"

"Right often. "

"And you are not afraid? Remember I have a care over you. "

"I am not afraid. "

"Then kiss, little Cyn, and God bless you. "

On her way home Marcia Lowe stopped at the church to rest and "talk itover with Uncle Theodore. "

The golden winter sunset streamed through the window and lay bright andfair like a shining way up to the altar. Marcia walked the brilliantstrip and sat down in the minister's pew. Wrapping her heavy coatabout her she raised her eyes to the pulpit and a great comfort came. Then she closed her eyes and the pale, fine face of her uncle seemed torise before her. 

"If you could only tell me all about it, dear, " she whispered. "Iwould help any little girl. God knows, but I could help yours so mucheasier! Isn't there some way, uncle, that you can make me understand?Is your place so far away?"

A step fell upon the floor; a shambling, tottering footstep. Miss Loweturned and saw Andrew Townley. 

"Sit here beside me, " she said; "this is a good place to be. "

"It's a right good place, ma'am. Seems like we-all can't kill ParsonStarr. I seem to feel like it was only yesterday when he rode up TheWay and sorter settled down like a blessing long o' us-all. Lately, asI pass by or turn in yere I get a call back to something what he spoke. To-day it came to me right sharp how he said 'greater love' and thenwent on to explanify. I'm right old in years, ma'am, and I'mdoddering, I expect, but I reckon I knows as much as that po' moonchile o' Hope's. You know Crothers has got him, too, 'mong the wheels, and the po' lil' boy he comes home all wild and sicklike, and morningsHope has to lick him down The Way--he hates that-er-much to go. Cometo-morrow, I'm going down to Crothers' and I'm going to offer up myself'stead o' that moon chile. When I go to join Parson Starr I'd like tohave something to offer him by way o' excusing myself. 'Parson, I'llsay to him, parson, this I done 'long o' "Greater Love. "'"

Marcia Lowe's eyes filled with tears as she took the poor old fumblinghands in her own. 

"Dear, dear friend, " she faltered, "God will not need your service. Hehas chosen a burnt offering instead of a human sacrifice. The factoryis in ashes now, and for a time, the children may rest. "

"Sho'!" murmured Andrew. "Sho' to be sure. " Then he wandered back tothat past which held Starr. 

"The last time I saw the parson was that-er-day when he went a ridingoff to the Gulch to help ole Miss Lanley out o' life. He had lil' MissQueenie long o' him--she was the Walden girl as _was_. "

Marcia Lowe sat up straighter and again gripped the wandering, wrinkledhands. Her uncle's letter came vividly to mind and she felt suddenlythat she was being led by old Townley back to clear vision. 

"Go on!" she whispered soothingly, seeking not to confuse the ramblingwits. "Just where was old Miss Lanley's place?"

Andrew laughed foolishly. 

"Lanley!" he pattered on. "Susie May Lanley! I reckon she was a rightputty one in her day. I uster set and watch her and say this-er-way:'plenty o' them! I'm going to get one!' meaning to make her jealouslong o' gals, but she never took no heed--but Landy! she died forsakenand lone, and times is when I think she would have been a mighty sightbetter off if she had took me!"

Townley's long reminiscence had tired him woefully and he began to crypitifully, swaying to and fro and repeating:

"She done died forsaken and lone!"

Then he fell asleep, his white head on Marcia Lowe's shoulder, the fullradiance of the late sun flooding over them through the western window. For a half hour he slept and when he awakened he seemed hopelesslyaddled. Muttering and groping, hardly seeming to notice his companion, he made his way out of the church. 

"Old Miss Susie May Lanley!" the little doctor repeated over and over. "I must hold to that until I get it on paper. I guess Uncle Theodorewas married by some one living near old Miss Susie May Lanley's!"

Just as Marcia Lowe was leaving the church, Cynthia came running downthe trail. She was smiling and calm. 

"I came back, " she said confidingly, "to tell you something. I'veworked it out myself. "

"Yes, dear;" the girl's face struck Marcia strangely. A new expressionrested upon it. 

"I'm--not--going--to suffer any more. "

"Why, little Cyn?"

"No. No more! It hurts and hurts and then you get over it, and go onjust the same. I'm not going to suffer!"

Miss Lowe went close and took the pretty face in her hands. 

"See here, little girl, if suffering is a teacher it is not such acruel thing; be a good learner. "

"No. Last night in the blackness and fear something happened--here!"The girl put her hand over her heart. "But now with the sun shiningover Lost Mountain, it's all so right safe and still and happy that I'msorry for the hurt of last night. No, I am not going to suffer. I'mgoing to be just lil' Cyn again. I thought you would like to know. "

"Oh, dear, " and then Marcia laughed. "You-all make me want to cry soeasily! I am glad, dear. Surely I do not _want_ any one to suffer;but see here, will you come to me every day, Cynthia? I want to teachyou some necessary things. Things like--well--book things! Thingsthat Sandy just loved. "

"I reckon I will, Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

Then she was gone as she had come. Crothers' touch had only alarmedher; it had not soiled her. 

"Thank God!" murmured the little doctor; "the woman in the childshielded her from all but physical shock! And what a quaint philosophyfor a girl to evolve. "

That evening as Marcia Lowe stood before her little mirror in thelean-to, braiding her long smooth hair, she talked a bit for comfort'ssake. 

"It's plain luxury to lie in my own bed again, " she said, "the bench inthe other room can never be made anything but a martyr's cot. " Thenshe glanced up and faced her own smiling image with the braids twistedabout the head. 

"Oh!" she faltered, falling back, "oh! Uncle Theodore!" For there, smiling at her with the slow, lingering smile, the face of Cynthiaseemed to shine out by the flickering candlelight, instead of her own!

The long dressing-gown gave a childish setting to the little doctor'sform, the coronet braids; the happy, smiling face was young andwonderfully, strikingly like Cynthia's. 

"They always said I was so like Uncle Theodore! I've got Cynthia toher father by way of--me!"

Then the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady did a most unaccountable thing--shefairly pranced about the room. 

"I've found it!" she sang; "without resurrecting old Miss Susie MayLanley! What's a stupid marriage certificate compared to God's plainhandwriting? I can keep my secret now, Uncle Theodore, until the righttime. It was so good of you, dear, to give me proof. "

CHAPTER XV

Seven years passed, leaving their traces, and upon a certain afternoonin August Levi Markham and Matilda sat on the piazza of the Brethertonhome and awaited the arrival of Mrs. Olive Treadwell. 

Old Bob, Sandy's collie, lay at Levi's feet. Bob was fat and full ofyears; he wore a heavily studded collar with perfect dignity and had, apparently, quite forgotten lean days and promiscuous kicks. Levicould now shuffle his feet with impunity. Bob never suspected ulteriormotives and the sight of a broom or club had lost all terrors for him. 

Markham did not look any older than he looked seven years ago. Indeed, his interest in Sandy Morley, his pride in that young man'sachievement, and Sandy's absolute love and loyalty to his benefactor, had done much to relieve Markham of years instead of adding them tohim. Matilda had not fared so well. She looked like fragile ware, butshe never complained and with quiet courage she went her westering waythankfully. 

"Levi is wonderfully softened, " she often thought; "it doesn't hurt himso much these days to praise instead of blame, and naturally folksrespond. It's mostly on account of Sandy. Levi does so mortally hateto lose that when he wins out he thaws out!"

The broad acres of Bretherton were rich and full of harvest as the oldbrother and sister waited that afternoon. At last Levi snapped hiswatch cover and said sharply:

"That three-fifty train is always late! Do you suppose--she--Mrs. Treadwell, will expect to be put up for the night?"

"I hope not, " Matilda replied, knitting away gently with closed eyes. "I'm not one who takes pleasure in folks' disappointments and I'm gladto say the village inn is comfortable and not over crowded. I _can_, if it is necessary, tell Mary Jane to put an extra plate on for theevening meal. "

"Wait and see how things turn out, " cautiously advised Levi. 

"What time is it now, brother?"

"Two-forty-five! But I put no faith in that train. "

"Was that a letter from Sandy you got in the noon mail?"

"It was, Matilda. I think it would be safe to have an extra plate puton for him. "

Matilda opened her eyes. 

"Levi, " she said; "I'm not one to nose about much, but what is themeaning of all this?"

Levi set his lips grimly. 

"I never knew that Treadwell woman to break in after a long silence butfor two things, " he replied; "either she wants something or she wantsto get rid of something. Three years back she asked for help when shefound that precious nephew of hers----"

"And ours, Levi, " Matilda put in; "we can't disown him. Blood is bloodeven if it clots. "

"Well, our nephew, then! When she found young Lansing Treadwell eatingup her income, she begged for some scraps of what she pleased to term'his mother's rights!'"

"And you gave them to her, Levi!"

"I couldn't let Caroline's boy die in a hole even if Hertford's son puthim there!"

"You speak real comically sometimes, Levi. There are times when Icould think Sandy was talking through your voice!"

"Well! well! every man has a streak of the dramatic in him!" Markham'slips relaxed, "and I must say that to see Sandy Morley and LansTreadwell good friends without either sensing the true relations ofbirth and tradition, tickles me through and through. I guess thatTreadwell woman would have done her prettiest if she had caught on. But she doesn't know where Sandy hailed from and she's covered theHertford name out of sight for personal grudge, and those twoyoungsters sailed into each other as if they were steered by Fate andno one interfering. Lans Treadwell can't get anything but good out ofSandy, and there isn't a soul living--you and I included--who coulddraw Morley from his course, so I've looked on and chuckledconsiderably. "

"Brother, I sometimes wonder how it is that you trust Sandy as youdo--you never question. "

"Not out loud, 'Tilda. "

"But he does not always explain. Now his working this summer as hehas! Every other summer it has been in the mills, but this summer hehad to have more money than you gave him. What for, Levi? I ask youflat-footed and not casting any suspicion, but what did he want it for?"

"That's the reason I've asked him down to-night. I want to find out. I never have questioned him over much. When he said he wanted moremoney I took for granted that he did and so long as he didn't hint forme to give it, I sort of allowed it wasn't any of my business. He'smastered the rudiments at the mills; he's over twenty-one--justover--and I rather enjoyed seeing him take the bit in his teeth. But Isensed that Mrs. Treadwell was coming to get rid of something to-dayand I thought it might be just as well for Sandy to be on hand later. Matilda, if they two lap over each other, you steer Sandy away till Imarch her off. "

Matilda nodded and again shut her eyes while she knitted her soft woolsinto a "rainbow scarf. " When she spoke, her thoughts had taken asudden and new turn. 

"I'll admit, Levi, that Sandy's clothes set on him as I never saw aman's clothes set. They are the making of him. He's terrible goodlooking--considering!"

"Considering--what?" Markham frowned at the placid face and close-shuteyes. "Considering! ugh! Why, 'Tilda, there is blood running in thatboy's veins that we Americans ought to bow down before! There aretimes when he looks at me in his big, kind, loving fashion, that I feelas I did the first time the poor little dirty devil raised his eyes tome, only now all that went to the making of the lad seems to be saying, 'thank you, Markham, and God bless you!'"

"Levi, you're an awful good man, and time's mellowing you more than anyone would have looked for. "

"Thank you, 'Tilda. "

And then for a long time they sat in silence and thought their ownthoughts. Bob grunted and turned around facing the brother and sister, blinked, grunted again, and probably thought of Sandy also. 

The train that afternoon was on time, and the carriage Markham sent tothe station presently appeared bearing Mrs. Treadwell. 

Olive Treadwell was handsomer than ever, for her gray hair softened herfeatures and the years had added just enough flesh to her bones toinsure grace, not angularity. 

"I am going back on the six-two train, Mr. Markham, if you will permityour coachman to take me to the station. Lans and I have a veryimportant engagement this evening. "

Levi gave the order and handed his visitor to a chair. 

"Matilda has some iced tea for us, " he said, "and then we will goinside. "

Mrs. Treadwell greeted her hostess and sat languidly down, taking off, as she did so, her long dust coat and displaying an exquisite gown ofpale violet. 

There was a little desultory conversation, two cups of delicious teaand one of Matilda's choice sandwiches and then Markham led the way tothe library. 

Mrs. Treadwell took the deep leather chair, Levi lowered the awningover the west window, and courteously sat down opposite his visitor. 

"It is years since we met, Mr. Markham, " Olive Treadwell said; "but youhave been very kind to me, meanwhile. I am not one to forget. "

Markham nodded his head and lowered his eyes. After a decent pauseMrs. Treadwell continued, feeling her way through her remarks like acautious person stepping gingerly over a mental ice pond. She alwaysseemed to leave a subject open to more than one interpretation and bythe lifting of Markham's eyebrows or the raising of his eyes she choseher footing. The raising of his keen eyes under the shaggy brows wasvery disconcerting and illuminating. 

"I know, my dear Mr. Markham, that you are not as worldly as I am; I amconfident that along certain lines of conventions we will differ now, as we have in the past, but, being worldly I cannot bear that aninjustice should be done that would cause you to act in such a way asto defeat your own aims and ideals. "

The eyebrows went up as if they were on springs, and Mrs. Treadwellleaped to a safer footing. 

"Of course, when I refer to worldliness, I mean social worldliness. Ihave learned, I have been forced to learn, the justice of youronce-proposed dealing with my Lans before he went to college. Yourbusiness sense cannot be questioned. Had the boy been placed in yourhands then, I really believe his outlook on life would have beenclearer and finer. He has associated with those who have coloured hisviews by--well, let us say, artificial lights. Still, the boy is thebest of his kind--I will say that for him. I hope I can make youbelieve that I have come to you to-day entirely for your own bestinterests--not his!"

And now the steely eyes met the soft brown ones and demanded thenearest approach to truth that Olive Treadwell had to offer. Sheflushed and went back to her former place of safety and tried again. 

"Let us resort to no subterfuge, " she said with a charming smile. 

"Thank you, " Levi nodded and again lowered his lids. 

"To be quite frank, then, what I mean is this: I recognize that you areone of the few men who regard your wealth as a trust; your capacity foracquiring wealth a talent for which you are responsible. As I saidbefore, I feel that had I realized your true motives at the time Lansgraduated from preparatory school, I would have been eager to place himin your charge to learn the great business of life and the use ofwealth in your way. I made an error; I confess it willingly. Sincethen I have heard of your wise and private charities----"

"I never give charity, madam!"

"You are so modest! Well, your understanding helpfulness. "

"Simply good business, madam. "

"Very well--good business! and that brings me to my point. I havealways said that if I must trust myself, my confidence, or my money toanyone, I would choose a person who, by training, instincts, andpossibilities most nearly was akin to myself. I sincerely believeinheritance and blood do count. Now just suppose----" Mrs. Treadwellgingerly put her weight on the next footing; "suppose you were obligedto intrust your wealth and future interests to one of two men, wouldyou not feel safer in the hands of the man who, for family reasons andby inherited tastes, could understand you and your ideals?"

"Certainly, madam. "

"You know when a test comes you have to take a good deal for granted inone who has no tie of blood to hold him to you?"

"May I request, madam, that you tell me exactly what you mean in as fewwords as possible? I see that you are embarrassed by what you havebeen kind enough to come to tell me--I believe it will help us both ifyou state your facts without further explanation or preparation. "

The tide had carried Olive Treadwell out into midstream--it was sink orswim now!

"I will do so. I cannot bear to see you duped by your adopted--shall Isay, son?"

"I have never held the position of father to young Morley. I've helpedhim to find himself as I have many another young man. He has no reasonto dupe me. We understand each other fairly well; better, I think thanmost old men and young ones. "

"Exactly! That is what you think. "

"It is. "

"Very well, then listen. Remember I would not have come to you if Ihad not had evidence. You take exception to Lans and his ways of life, I have been informed that you have even called him a--a--libertine!"

"With modifications--yes!"

"I do not ask, Mr. Markham, that you try to withhold your judgmentsuntil you know all the facts about my boy. You were never fair to him;you saw him--you see him now--through his father, my poor brother!"

"Madam, for his mother's sake I have always kept in touch with hiscareer even when I knew he was beyond any caution or judgment of mine. I know that he has shamefully compromised a young woman and quiteopenly flaunts his relations with her by calling them some new-fangledname. Perhaps I am a narrow-gauge man, madam. All my life I have beenobliged to travel from a certain point to a certain point--I'm madethat way. I have endeavoured to look about to help my fellow-men, whenI could in justice do so, but I have stuck to the tracks that seem tome to lead safely through the land of my journey. I am not interestedin branch roads or sidings. "

Mrs. Treadwell was a bit breathless and angry but she was too far fromshore yet to indulge in relaxation. 

"Lans is not an evil fellow; he is high-minded and will prove himselfin due time. I really am only seeking to help you be patient until hehas had his opportunity, and not, in the meantime, make a fatalmistake. A new era is about to dawn when men and women, for the goodof the race, will attack social conditions from a different plane fromwhat you and I have been taught to consider right. Lans is in thevanguard of this movement--but I only implore you to give him time andwhile we are waiting let me ask you this--would you be more lenientto--to this protégé of yours than you are to Lans, if I could prove toyou that he has been hiding his private life from you entirely? Has, apparently, laid himself bare to your confidence and good-will while, in a secret and shameful manner, he has had very disreputable relationswith a young woman in Boston?"

Levi Markham took this blow characteristically: he sighed, raised hiseyes to the speaker's face, and said calmly:

"I thank you, madam, for your interest in my affairs. I can readilysee that you would not dare come to me with this matter unless you hadfacts. I appreciate your good-will toward me and Lans, but I am justwondering if this--this relationship of Sandford Morley's with a--withthe young woman, might not be viewed as leniently as Lansing's--if allwere known? He might call it by a new-fangled name, you know. "

"Why, Mr. Markham! His intrigue is a low, vulgar thing. That isexactly what I am trying to make you understand. The difference liesright there. Lans is open and above-board; he's a gentleman. Thisyoung Morley is----"

"Well, well, madam!" Levi held up his hand calmly silencing theindignant voice. "I know Lansing has taken every one into hisconfidence who chose to lend an ear; we have all shared his lifewhether we approved or not and I will say this: young Morley has neverasked any one to play confessor for him, but I am going to give him anopportunity to speak for himself if he wants to. "

"He will lie, sir. "

"He's the worst liar you ever saw, Mrs. Treadwell. "

Just how to take this Olive Treadwell did not know. She wasdistracted. She felt that Markham was playing with her! Perhaps heknew all about Morley's escapades and preferred them to Lans' newerideals. 

"You will investigate for yourself?" she pleaded; "in justice to Lans?"

"In my own way, Madam. "

"You mean----"

"That I will look to my own interests as I always have. When all issaid and done, ma'am, there's no law in the State that confines me toleaving my savings to any particular young man. I have still, I hope, a few years to my credit. I promise you I will devote them to securingthe best possible good for the _trust_, as you so well put it, in mykeeping. You are quite right also in saying that I consider the powerof money-making a talent. It is my only talent and I do notunderestimate it. "

"You are a--hard man, Markham. Time has not softened you. "

"I will still endeavour to be just, madam. I will tell you this--if Idiscover that I have been duped, I'll give, outright, a good sum ofmoney to you in trust for Lansing!"

"You think I--I have simply tried to blacken Morley's character forpersonal gain?"

"No, no, Mrs. Treadwell. I ascribed the best possible motives to you!"

"Levi Markham--I cannot understand you. "

"Why should you try, madam?"

Olive Treadwell got up and paced the room. 

"You humiliate me!" she said angrily. "Of course I desire my brother'sson to inherit rightfully. He will have all that I die possessed of. I am seeking his interests but only justly and humanly. When he firstcame in contact with this--this investment of yours--as you call him, it was as _tutor_ to this Morley. Consider! _tutor_, my brother's son, to your--your waif! And the dear, noble fellow--my Lans, fell in lovewith him. Has trusted and helped him socially. Why, he made hiscollege life easy for him by his own popularity. Quite by accident Idiscovered the vulgar intrigue of this--this Morley. I saw him go intoa house where a little seamstress of mine lives! I inquired; I foundhim out; and--and, not for any low gain, but gain in the larger, highersense I pocketed my pride and came to you as helpless women do come tostrong men and you make me feel like a--village scandal-monger!"

"I beg your pardon, madam. I am sorry that my manner suggests this toyou. But can you not see that I must master this situation in my ownway? I cannot sell out my interest in my investment without reason. Give me a--week--no forty-eight hours!"

"Thank heaven!" Olive Treadwell exclaimed, "there is the carriage. Nomatter what the outcome of this is, Levi Markham, I reckon you'll liveto thank me for putting you on the right track. "

"I'm still on my narrow gauge, madam. " Markham smiled not unkindly andput out his hand. 

"Please bid your sister farewell. I shall not return to Bretherton, Iimagine. I will never willingly abase myself again, not even for Lans!"

When she had gone Markham sank into the big leather chair and lookedblankly before him. His eyes were fixed across the desk where hehimself generally sat, and a kind of pity moved him for the part of himthat no one ever knew or suspected. In Sandy Morley, he had realizednearer his yearning and ambition than he ever had before. His paternalinstincts had been, to a certain degree, gratified. The boy had seemedso entirely his; had responded so splendidly to his efforts for him. They had grown so close together during the past years in their silent, undemonstrative fashion. Could it be possible that he had beendeceived?

And then Markham pulled himself together and went around the desk tohis revolving chair. It was as if the stern man of affairs tookcontrol and demanded of the doubting creature opposite, common senseand plain justice. "Hold your horses, Levi, " he cautioned; "bide yourtime. Don't get scared off. Do you remember that old mine that no oneelse took stock in? It bought and feathered your first nest! Just youhold to that and keep your mind easy until you get onto the jobyourself!"

CHAPTER XVI

Sandy came down from Boston that evening, tired-eyed and dusty. Hewalked up from the station because he had taken an earlier train and hewanted the walk through the quiet, sweet woods and fields before he metthe two friends from whom he always kept his worries and troubles. Bythe time he entered the house on the hill he would be himself again!

And what had the seven years done for and with Sandy Morley? Outwardlythey had wrought wonders with him. He was over six feet tall, broadand good to look upon. His clean-cut dark face was rather stern andserious, but his eyes had caught and held the light and kindness theworld had shown him since he left Lost Mountain. When Sandy smiled youforgot his sternness; he could look very joyous, but recent happeningshad set a seal upon his brighter side. Well dressed and well cared forhe strode ahead, taking a cut be knew well through the woods andpastures leading up to the farmhouse, and for the first time in yearsthe homesickness for Lost Hollow surged over him. Always in hisdeeper, more thoughtful moods the old home-place had a part. For yearshe rarely ate a meal, when he was hungry, without a grip of memorytaking a flavour from the food. His hours of ease and pleasure werehaunted by grim recollections of toil and dreariness which he had onceendured, and which others, like him, were still undergoing. He neverforgot, never became callous; but as time went on and success becamemore certain, he learned to estimate the value of utilizing his chancesand economizing his strength and powers. As in the old days ofpreparation among the hills, he put in safe keeping his earnings, nevercounting them; never trusting himself to the encouragement ordepression of their amount for good or ill--he awaited his hour andcall. And, too, as in the old days he mistrusted and feared Molly, sonow there were moments when he, superstitiously, expected some one orsome thing to defeat him in his aims and ideals. For never had hisvision faltered. He was still preparing to help Lost Hollow and allthem who dwelt therein. 

There had been times in the past when, strange to say, with good foodin plenty about him, he had yearned with hungry longing for the roughash cakes and sour milk of his early home; and there would always behours when he would raise his eyes in soul-sickness and pray for aglimpse of Lost Mountain--the one lofty thing in his one-time littleworld. And the first few springs after his leaving his home he was illwhen he saw the dogwood blossoms--they called to the depths of hisnature and the depths answered not! He had kept the vow made tohimself--he would neither write nor seek word from the hills until hewere ready to go back to his own. 

The first days at school were tortured experiences, but he masteredthem first by physical courage, then by sheer fineness of character. He made great strides after the second year, and when he graduated fromthe New Hampshire Preparatory he was ready, with some tutoring, toenter Harvard. Oddly enough Lansing Treadwell became his tutor, neither knowing more of the other than the circumstances demanded. Again Sandy's rare disposition won for him a place in Treadwell's goodwill and liking. The young tutor prided himself upon his ownpopularity and social position; he made a virtue of his necessity forearning money and, in good natured, lordly fashion, blazed a trail forhis uncle's protégé with a laugh of indifference at his own defeat withhis austere relative. 

When in due time Morley graduated with honours from college none wasmore generous with praise and pride than Lansing Treadwell. 

"By Jove! my friend, " he said, "I'm nothing but a big, bungling giantwithout genius or talent. Let me set you on my shoulders and you'llconquer the world--our nice, little world of Boston!"

But Sandy had no social ambitions. When his summer work in the millswas over, he found his greatest pleasure at Bretherton with Markham andMatilda and old Bob. And then, when sudden necessity lashed him tounexpected endeavour, he went to young Treadwell and said simply:

"I am not going to work in the mills this vacation; Mr. Markham hasoffered me a trip somewhere, but I have need of money for personal usesand I must--earn some. Can you help me?"

And again Lansing Treadwell, with a grin of amused understanding, putSandy in the way of tutoring a rich man's sons. 

And now, Morley, tired, sad at heart, needing what he was too generousand unselfish to ask for, was responding to Markham's summons and wason his way to Bretherton. 

Of course neither Markham nor his sister could understand his need ofsympathy and tenderness. Proudly he had withheld his private cares andtroubles. He accepted from others only what he might some day hope toreturn; he never drew a check on the bank of sympathy without takingaccount of his savings!

When Sandy came in sight of the beautiful old house on the hill, andwhen but a meadow lay between him and it, he gave a long, sweetbird-call and waited. A second time he called and then he saw Bobloping over the front lawn and, with upraised sniffing nose, caperabout. A third trill settled the dog's doubts, and with an abandonthat age could not overcome he ran and jumped to the unseen friend. 

"Good old fellow!" cried Sandy when Bob drew near; "good old pal!" Andthen the dog was in the young fellow's arms. After a few moments theysedately went on their homeward way together--Sandy's hand resting uponthe uplifted yellow head. 

"Sandy, you look thin!" Matilda remarked at dinner as she eyed him overher spectacles. "You make me think of the lean days after your feverseven years ago. "

"I reckon I am still growing, Miss Markham. "

Levi scanned the young face. 

"Mill work never used you up, " he said slowly. 

"It's not work, sir. It's been right hot in town, and you know thecity a ways stifles me. "

"Umph!" said Markham. 

After Matilda had gone to bed that evening Levi sat on the broad piazzawith Sandy, while a late yellow-red moon rode majestically in the skyand lighted the dew-touched meadow land. 

"Looks hot, " Levi murmured; "hot and dry. "

"Yes, " agreed Sandy. Then quite suddenly Markham asked:

"Sandford, I wish you to tell me exactly why you wanted extra moneythis summer. I say wish, because I know I have no right to demand yourconfidence, but I do think I have a right to protect you against--well, against yourself when it comes to personal injury. You trusted meseven years ago with your confidence; you've talked pretty openly to meduring your school and college years. Reports speak louder thanwords--but we've kept in touch with each other. I make no claims, butI'd like to think you know I am your friend. "

Just then the moonlight shifted to Sandy's face and lay across it inbrilliant clearness. 

"I can tell you better to-night, sir, than I could have a week ago, forthe need is past now. I have only kept it to myself because it hasnever seemed right that I should ask more of you than you offered togive--and this was my affair--mine alone. "

"I see!" muttered Markham, and his jaw set, not with doubt of Sandy, but with detestation of the woman who earlier in the day had driven himto attack this boy's sacred privilege of independence and privacy. 

"It began, sir, when I was in the midst of class work in June. I washaving a particularly good time, you may remember, when, one night, amessenger came to my rooms and said some one wanted to see me near thegate of the Square. It was a girl, sir, though she looked a woman; apoor, sad, sick creature from my home--my half sister, Molly! I didnot know her at first. She was right little and pretty when I last sawher, but cruelty and want had turned her into----"

Levi's eyes were riveted on the still, white face of the speaker, andhis heart hurt him for very pity. He could not let the boy say theword. 

"And she--what did she want?" he asked so sternly that Sandy, even withhis reverence for Markham, took up arms in his sister's defence. 

"Don't judge her harshly, sir; you do not know our hills. Molly was amighty weak little girl, and when temptation came to her, she hadn'tstrength to resist, and they who should have defended her--sold her! Iwas not there, so I cannot be hard upon her, though she thought I meantto be at first. You see I was so shocked and surprised, and amid allthe happenings I had almost forgotten. She threatened me, sir. It wasright pitiful. She said every one was dead--her mother; ourfather----" Sandy's voice faltered--"she was alone. She hadn'tforgotten her old ways either. You remember that I told you how as alittle girl she had threatened the--the treasure under the rock beyondthe Branch?" Markham nodded. 

"Well--she threatened the treasure of to-day. She was for finding youout and begging--so--well, I bought her off! for I would not have youhaggled and be made to repent your helping of me. I have kept her, sir, in a little room in a corner of Boston all summer. It was a neatand comfortable place, with a tree at the window. After a time shetrusted me! At first it was hard for her to keep--well!--I reckon whenone let's go as poor Molly did--it is right difficult to hold on longto a new and safer course. But--she died four days ago! She wasalone, sir, with her head on the window sill; her poor little face settoward the tree. I had had a doctor for her--she had been feelingill--it was heart trouble--she went without pain. I saw her buriedto-day--some time in the future I am going to take her body to LostMountain. She'll really rest there, I reckon. "

The moonlight passed from the white, tired face and Levi's aching eyesclosed, taking the vision of Sandy with them. He recalled the boy'smanner through the closing scenes of his college life; the outwardcalmness and grateful appreciation while the hideous trouble was eatingthe joy from the hours of triumph he had so bravely won. He reflectedupon the following weeks of toil and lonely labour with that poor, dying girl in the background taking his life blood as once she hadtaken his hard-earned money. Then when he could bear no more LeviMarkham got up and walked over to Sandy. He laid a trembling hand onhis shoulder and by stern effort controlled his voice. 

"My boy!" he murmured; "my--boy! words come hard; I'm not an easytalker--but--you and I are both tuckered out. I have never had avacation in my life--a real vacation. I've always packed business andworry in my satchel. Will you come across the water with me, lad? Letus try to see if there is any play in us. Let's have a look at someregular mountains and some second-rate cities--and when we get back Iwant you to travel up to that tumble down Hollow you hailed from, andtake my money along; we'll begin repairs at once--you bossing, I payingthe bills. We'll set it going some--you and I! As to this trip abroadwe'll take 'Tilda along to keep us straight and--and make uscomfortable, Sandy!"

But Sandy's head was bowed on his clasped hands and the first tears hehad shed in years were trickling through his fingers. 

"You'll come, Sandy Morley?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And--I want to tell you, my boy--that I'm satisfied with my flyer ofan investment. Come! Come! You've acted the part of a man beforeyou've been a boy. You and I have earned--a vacation. "

An hour later Markham tapped at Matilda's door and the prompt, "Comein, Levi, " caused him a moment's uneasiness. 

"Insomnia?" he asked, drawing a chair close to his sister's bed. 

"Just a little wakefulness, brother. Now don't get fidgetty. I'm realsatisfied to lie here and think of my blessedness and comfort. It'sgratifying to recall all your possessions in the night. They sayworries stand out clearest then, but with me it's the other way. Mytroubles just vanish and every living, breathing pleasantness comes tothe fore. Now, you, for example, Levi. I was praising God about youas you knocked. You're a changed man, brother. You were always a goodman, but to be flat-footed I must say that there was a time whenconversation with you was like jogging along over a stony road. Onegot so many bumps that it didn't seem worth while. I used to getterrible lonely at times, for I wouldn't take pleasures and leave youout--it always has seemed to me that you never got the _right_ changefor what you spent, and I wanted to do my share in keeping you companyif you ever felt the lack. And then that poor little fellow cametumbling into our lives same as if God had sent him rolling down themountain to our door. If ever there was a blessing in disguise, it wasSandy! I tell you he's a pretty comforting creature to hold to whenyou lie awake nights. A minute ago I was saying over and over--"thankGod for Sandy!" He gets closer to you than you think, Levi--it's hisway and he's the strongest, gratefullest fellow. Every time I look athim lately I think of the saying--strength of the hills. "

And now Levi sought and found the thin, blue-veined hands foldedpeacefully upon the white coverlid. 

"Sandy found the starved mother and father in us, Matilda. His needmet ours, and God blessed us all. "

"That's a true word, brother. You and I were real pinched in our aimsand longings in the offset. Do you remember how you always wantedlearning and college, and how I actually was besotted about traipsingaround the world? Such dreams as we managed to make up! I have theold geography now with pin points all up the side of the Alps where youand I counted the height and then said we didn't believe it! Well, you've found success without college, and I've found peace withouttravel. "

Levi patted the cool, old hands tenderly. Sandy's story had somehowmade Matilda very precious. 

"But lands, Levi! We are all old children and go on with our foolishdreams till we're tucked in at last for good and all. Maybe I ought tobe ashamed to own to this, but I lie here nights and actually makebelieve I'm Sandy's mother. Mother's an awful comforting word to womenas well as children. "

"Well, Matilda, I'll own up to the same side play. " Levi laughedsoftly; "the night he graduated I closed my eyes and listened to himreading off that fine stuff and--for a spell I fathered him and gotreal thrilled. But what I came to say to you to-night, 'Tilda, is nodream unless you can class it as a dream come true. Beginningto-morrow morning, I want that you should go into town and shop. "

"Shop, Levi?" Matilda leaned up on her thin elbow and scanned herbrother's face in the white light of the moon. "Shop, Levi? Shop forwhat?"

"Why--things! Have all the help you can get and take a reasonabletime, but I'd like to have you get real stylish fixings. I'd like realwell for you to have a lavender frock, something like that Treadwellwoman wears. You and Sandy and I are going vacationing!"

"Lands, Levi! Vacationing just as canning time is coming?"

"That's about the size of it. What's the fun in a vacation if youain't running away from plain duty?"

"Why, Levi, I do declare! Where are we going?"

The dear old face was shining in the ghostly gleam. 

"Oh! we're going to see mountains that will make Mt. Washington andLost Mountain look foolish. "

"Levi, don't trifle lightly with God's handiwork. I've always heldthat scenes of nature ought not be compared--it's real presumptious. "

"Well, then, Matilda, we're going to do the grand tour!"

"Levi, you surely are romancing. "

"I'm going to buy tickets to-morrow for about the middle of September!"

"You can't be serious, brother?"

"I am going to spend money--for _nothing_ once in my life! I'm goingto get what we want and not count the change!"

"It sounds scandalous, Levi!"

"It's going to be a--scandal. "

"What a sight we three will be, Levi. " The dear old soul chuckled. Like a child she had at last caught the contagion of Markham's humour. "I just know them foreigners will think we are a pair of fond parentswith our one chick and child. Do you think we need tell right out thatwe ain't, Levi? When it isn't necessary, couldn't we keep ourselves toourselves and--make believe, with the ocean between us and them thatknow, that Sandy is ours?"

"We can, Matilda. And I want that Sandy should get his fill ofpaintings. Did you ever know how he leans to art? Why, he's got abouta square acre of sketches among his belongings--he's shown me some, andwhile I do not set myself up for a critic I do say that there isfeeling in his stuff. "

"I've seen that dogwood one he carries about with him, " Matildaanswered, leaning back on her pillow. "It gives me the creeps. Timesare when I fancy there is a ghost of a girl face in the flowers. Sandylaughs at me--but I've caught the sight more than once in certainlights and its real upsetting. "

"Well, I want that he should take all the art in that he's capable ofdigesting, and I want you to see mountains and what not that you'vehungered after all your days and I want to see--Paris!"

"It's a real outlandish city for morals, Levi. "

"Well, it will make me glad to get back to Boston, Matilda, " Levichuckled. "Now lie down and try to sleep. "

"I feel real drowsy, Levi. My! how much I have got to be grateful for. You are a good man, brother. Time was when I feared success mightharden you. "

Levi did not rest well that night. Alone in his prim, old-fashionedchamber he lay and made plans for the future. 

"And after we come back, " he thought, "I'm going to send Sandy up tothe hills with blank checks in his pocket. I'm going to see what hecan do in the way of redeeming Lost Hollow. He'll never be happy awayfrom that God-forsaken place--it's in his soul and system. There'sthat land, too, I bought seven years ago! That oughtn't to be lyingfallow. "

Then his roving thoughts settled on his sister. "Matilda must consentto more help here in the house--she looks peaked. "

A sharp pang brought him to an upright position. He seemed to bebeside lonely Sandy as he had stood that very day by an obscuregrave--somewhere in a shabby little graveyard. 

"Matilda has been one sister in ten thousand and she's asked preciouslittle. Caroline got things quite naturally while she lived athome--'Tilda took the leavings always and patched, somehow, a thankful, beautiful life out of them. She's going to get whole pieces of clothfrom now----" he muttered, "with Sandy thrown in. "

CHAPTER XVII

Perhaps it was the spring air; perhaps it was the turn in the tide ofCynthia Walden's life, but whatever it was it roused her and grippedher from early morning. At six o'clock on that May day she awoke inher shabby room of Stoneledge and looked out of the vine-coveredwindow, heard a bird sing a wild, delicious little song, and then satup with the strange thrill of happiness flooding her heart and soul. 

It was a warm morning, more like late June than late May, and both thebird and the girl felt the joy in the promise of summer. 

At nineteen Cynthia, like the spring morn, bore the mark of her comingfulfillment of beauty. She was very lovely, tall, slim, slightlybending, like a reed that had bowed to the wind instead of resisting. The child look, full of question and waiting, was still in her clearblue-gray eyes; the well-formed mouth had not forgotten its pretty, slow smile, and the pale, exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin wastouched with a delicate tan and colour that did credit totally Taber'scare and culinary art. 

"I feel, " whispered the girl, tossing the braids of her smoothgold-brown hair back from her face; "I declare I feel as if somethingwas going to happen long o' me!"

Not for a moment did Cynthia imagine anything ill. Out of a barren, isolated life she had evolved and held to the strict philosophy she hadonce confided to Marcia Lowe in the little church. If trouble overtookher, she shielded herself as well as possible, smiled pleadingly andstepped aside. At such courtesy Trouble had obligingly gone on leavingthe girl of nineteen as trusting and hopeful as a child. The old househad crumbled and tottered. Ann Walden had sunk into positiveimbecility--but Cynthia had kept her faith and love. Sally Taber stillruled the Great House under the disguise of grateful dependent. Sheslept in the loft over the kitchen, made life a possible thing for ahelpless woman and a young girl, and asked nothing for herself inreturn. 

"If that woman doesn't have a crown studded two deep with jewels someday, " Marcia Lowe confided to Tod Greeley, "I'll miss my guess. "

And Tod, for various reasons, did what he could to show hisappreciation of the old woman's nobility. 

"Yo' sho' do give proper weight to us-all. " Sally often told him. "Things do las' mor'n one could expect, fo' de money. "

"I ain't goin' to run the risk of any pesky government investigation, "Greeley replied. "Better be on the safe side, I reckon. "

And now Cynthia again remarked to the pretty May morning:

"I feel as if something was going to happen 'long o' me. "

Then she got up and made her simple toilet. The shining braids werewound coronet-style about the shapely head, and some moments weredevoted to the choice of a gown. There were three hanging on nailsbehind the door leading to the hall; a checked gingham, brown, ugly andserviceable; a faded pink chambray, and a new, dull blue linen. Thislast was a gift from Marcia Lowe. It was the longest, most moderngarment Cynthia possessed, and the colour filled her awakening artisticsense with delight. 

"This one!" she murmured, and smiled at her own senseless extravagance. 

"I reckon it's right silly, " she said; "but it's mighty good fun towear your Sunday frock on a Thursday!"

Then arrayed and glowing with pride Cynthia contemplated herself in hertiny mirror. 

"If something happens 'long o' me, " she nodded in friendly fashion intothe glass, "it will find me ready. "

After breakfast she meant to go to Trouble Neck and help Marcia Lowewith her "school. " The little doctor's school was the newest and mostexciting innovation in The Hollow. The student list was elastic andall embracing. Every department of life was taught, as and how it werepossible. The timid, blighted little folks were lured to the cabin byall means at Miss Lowe's command and fed such crumbs as their poor witscould comprehend. 

"Let's flip out the grains, Cynthia, dear, " the little doctor urged;"perhaps some chick can swallow them. We must make hay while the sunshines. Crothers' new factory is looming up and when that whistleblows, good-bye to the Trouble Neck Academy!"

It had taken nearly seven years for Smith Crothers to collect hisinsurance, recover his health, and begin his business career again. Hehad left The Forge for two years, and since his return had gone slowlyabout his work of rebuilding and entering the arena. Whatever hethought or remembered of the night when his factory was burned, no one, but himself, knew. From a grim shadow of his former self he regainedhis health and looks; he nodded to Cynthia when he met her on The Wayand the girl tossed her head at him indifferently. Only Marcia Lowewas anxious. 

"Cynthia, " she said, "promise me that you will not wander in the woodsalone!"

"Not without a pistol, " the girl replied. "I'm a mighty good shot, dear Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady!"

But Marcia Lowe shook her head. 

When Cynthia went downstairs that May morning, Sally Taber had theplain breakfast on the dining-room table, and her face looked drawn andworried. 

"Miss Cyn, " she said, when she had set the corn bread and milk beforethe girl, "las' night ole Miss war right troublesome. "

"You have been up a good deal, Sally?"

"I sho' have. Ole Miss took to wandering and nothing would suit herbut de libry. I done made a fire there and let her play. She done digat the hearthstone an' laughed and babbled 'til long 'bout threeo'clock, then I carried her upstairs and laid her in her bed same as ifshe was a lil' tired out babby. "

"Dear Sally!" Cynthia's eyes shone. "I'll stay home to-day and letyou sleep. "

"I reckon you will do nothin' like that! Ole Miss will be good formos' the mornin' an' I'se goin' to patch up the libry. If ole Misstakes a fancy to that-er-room, she goin' to have what she wants! Ifshe wants to pick 'long o' the hearthstone, she is goin' to do that;I'll loosen it up. "

"I will watch her to-night, then!" Cynthia said, "and I'll be backright early this evening, Sally. "

Just as Cynthia reached The Way, she met Martin Morley. 

"Good morning, lil' Miss Cyn, " he greeted; "seems like you be part ofthis yere pretty day. "

"Good morning, Mr. Morley. You look right smart and dandified. "

Morley was neatly and decently attired and his calm, clear eyes weresteady and full of purpose. The "charm" had held good with him, andever since the well-fought battle in the little doctor's lean-tochamber, he had gradually worked his way back to self-respect andcontent. Mary and Molly had drifted from his life so effectually thathe had accepted the inevitable and never mentioned their names. 

"Where you going, Mr. Morley?"

"I am going down to The Forge, " Martin answered. "They-all say theyoung manager for that company what's going to build a factory uphigher has come, and I'm going to try and get a job. "

"Do you believe there _is_ going to be a factory, Mr. Morley? Do youbelieve Smith Crothers would let any one have a factory so near his?"

"They-all do say, Miss Cynthia, that that-er company what sends thisyoung man, is powerful rich and upperty. They-all do say that-ercompany ain't so much as consulted with Smith Crothers. "

"It must be a mighty brave company!" The slow smile touched the sweetlips. 

"Mr. Morley, I wonder if you will ever hear from Sandy?"

"Sho'! Miss Cynthia, you-all make me right creepy. I woke up this-ermorning from a dream 'bout Sandy. It was a right techersome dream, butdreams be techersome. I dreamed that Sandy was daid, and yet I woke upright cheerful. I've reasoned it out this-er-way. Sandy _is_ daid tome, lil' Miss Cynthia, but alive out in a bigger, wider life and sho' aright minded father should be mighty glad of that. I'm willing to giveSandy to a better life. "

The old face twitched. "It's 'bout all I can do for my son. "

"Oh! Mr. Morley, you're right noble but I don't believe Sandy's likethat. He's just waiting 'till he has a mighty fine something to bringback to us-all, and then we'll see him coming up The Way as brave andsmiling as can be. "

Martin shook his head slowly. 

"I don' doubt it, lil' Miss Cynthia. It's seven long years now! I'vetaken a right smart heap of comfort mending up the cabin and paintingit and planting vines and flowers about. It has been the happinessI've allowed myself--getting ready for Sandy that ain't never coming!Good morning, just wish me luck 'bout the job. The getting ready meanssomething even if you don't ever get what you're making ready for. "

And with this Martin Morley went down The Way toward The Forge to seekhis luck with the stranger who had arrived a few days before to beginoperations on a certain piece of land which had been bought by aman--no one could recall his name--seven years ago!

Cynthia stood under the trees by the road after Martin left and fellinto a reverie. It was early. By walking a little faster she couldreach Trouble Neck in time for the possible pupils, and the lure of themorning held her. Looking up to catch more distinctly the note of abird, she noticed how white and splendid the dogwood flowers were onthe tree under which she stood. 

"They certainly do look like stars!" she whispered. The day seemedpulsing with thoughts of Sandy Morley! Not for years had he been so inher mind. To be sure the hole in the tree near Stoneledge was quitefilled with letters written to an imaginary somebody called, forconvenience, Sandy--the "Biggest of Them All. " But Cynthia's idealbore little likeness to the actual Sandy, and her letters had becomebut the outpourings of a heart that must create its own Paradise orperish. Sandy Morley had faded into an indistinct blur, but theromance he had awakened bore the girl far and away from the common lifeof The Hollow. 

"I thought, " the uplifted face glowed rosily; "I thought I heard--a newnote! Some strange bird!" Then, with a toss of the head which threwthe broad brimmed hat back on the shoulders, "I must be getting rightdaffy! That's the bird Sandy Morley used to copy mighty cleverly. Icould do it myself once--I wonder!" The pretty lips curveddeliciously, and an effort was made to reproduce the sound. Sweetly, faintly it trilled and ended in a light laugh. 

From the underbrush lower down beside The Way, a young man looked atthe upraised face under the dogwood tree; listened to the answer to hiscall and felt his heart throb with such force that his lips drew closewith the pain of joy. For a few moments he gazed and struggled forself-control but great waves of happiness and delight overpowered him. He dared not move, but he sent a swift prayer to heaven--a prayer forguidance in a new life amid the old home-scenes for which his faithfulheart had yearned while he had wandered far. 

Cynthia's quick ears caught the rustle of the bushes across The Way andinstantly her face changed and her hand gripped something in a littlebag at her side. The stranger thought it wisest to step out. This hedid with a laugh of understanding. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Cynthia Walden, "I certainly do beg your pardon. I--thought--I thought you were Smith Crothers. "

The sudden fear wrung this candid confession from the girl. "I reckonyou don't know Smith Crothers. "

"I--I've heard of him recently. "

"I expect, " Cynthia was full of interest now. "I expect you are theman from the North. "

"You are quite right. "

"Now I'm right sorry you didn't get here fifteen minutes ago. "

The stranger's face flushed under its tan and the broad felt hat, inthe right hand, shook perceptibly. 

"Mr. Martin Morley has gone down The Way to see you. He reckons youwill give him a job. "

At this the man leaned heavily against a pine tree and stared at thegirl. Had he heard aright? For months he had believed Martin Morleywas dead--long dead!

"Yes, Mr. Morley was just here talking about the new factory up in themountain. "

To hear Cynthia say mountain was to love the high places better all thedays of your life. So lingeringly and tenderly did the soft voice dealwith the vowels and consonants that they suggested all the beauty andstrength of the hills. The man opposite closed his eyes from sheerdelight while the word sank into his consciousness and filled the emptyplaces of his heart. 

"He'll miss you, I reckon, but could you save a job for him?"

"I can and--will. " The man opened his eyes and courageously walkedacross The Way and stood still, hat in hand, before the girl. He wastall and broad and good to look upon and youth went out to youthcordially and frankly. 

"I reckon"--the homely word took the place of the Yankee "guess"naturally, "I reckon you are--Miss Cynthia Walden?"

"Yes. " Cynthia's eyes shone. "Who--told you?"

"I heard about you. " This was very lame, but it answered. 

"And you--sir?"

"Oh, I am--the man from the North. "

"You sound like you had Southern blood. "

"My father and mother were Southerners. "

"From round this-er-way?"

Again the man closed his eyes; the sweet voice and dear familiarexpressions were almost more than he could bear. 

"Not very far away. "

A very little seemed enough to pacify the girl's curiosity. 

"I reckon the North's mighty big, " she ventured presently. 

"It's--it's--tremendous. "

"Do you know anything about--Massachusetts?"

"I came from there. "

"Oh! And is that--so mighty big?"

"Not so big as the whole North. Though some still think it is. "

"Did you ever hear----" Cynthia paused and clasped her hands together;"of a--a boy named Sandy Morley? He went from here to there--long ago?"

It was a wild question, but the day was so haunted by Sandy that thewords came of their own volition. 

"I've met him; yes, I know him slightly. "

The colour rose and faded in Cynthia's face and her breath came quickand hard. 

"Oh! tell me about him. He came from this--Hollow! He went away yearsand years ago. Tell me--what has he become?"

Yearning, curiosity and honest interest marked the words, but the faceof the girl was a child's face, not a woman's. "He must be a right bigboy now!"

The man standing in The Way could not repress a smile. He saw thatCynthia Walden had in fancy enshrined the boy Sandy, but would shewelcome the man Sandy had become? Fearfully, dreading the test thatmust be made, he drew nearer, and with lowered eyes bowed, and said:

"I am Sandy Morley!"

Cynthia gave a frightened glance at the tall, dark stranger in theroad. She noticed, as if for the first time, his high laced boots, hiscorduroy trousers fastened in them, his flannel shirt and felt hat. All was fine and different, oh! so different from the ragged uglinessof the hills. That a stranger should be so clad did not interest her, but that her childhood's friend and slave should wear this livery ofposition shattered the beautiful portrait of the "Biggest of Them All"by one cruel blow. 

"No! You cannot be Sandy--not Sandy Morley. " Cynthia stepped backwith outstretched hands as if to ward off an attack. The light fadedfrom Sandy Morley's face and his eyes grew dark and pleading. 

"I've been right homesick all the years, " he faltered. "I've tried tomake myself worthy to come back. Always I have dreamed of you standingas you stand now under the dogwoods, to welcome me, but now that I havecome up The Way I find myself a--stranger!"

Cynthia was clutching the bough of a tree for support; her eyes werestrained and pathetic. 

"I--I do not know what I have expected, " she whispered, her eyesclinging to his; "but it is this-er-way. I have made a differentSandy, and I've kept him so long in my dreams and fancies, that to seehim a _man_, hurts. Oh! it hurts here!"

The clasped hands touched the panting bosom. Then Sandy came close toher and laid his firm, thin hand upon hers. The touch, the contact, brought sharply to the girl the memory of their parting when, besideThe Way, she had asked him to marry her some day and Sandy had kissedher!

"Little Cynthia, try to make a place in Lost Hollow for the man Sandy, who has come home a lonely stranger. "

He seemed old and detached, but his nearness and the memory of theirlast interview composed Cynthia. She drew back and the withdrawal hurtSandy more than she could know. 

"I--I must go!" she panted and turned, as in the old parting, and ranwithout one backward look. 

Sandy stood and gazed after her with yearning eyes. Outwardly she wasall his faithful heart could have asked. Her face, as he had seen it afew moments ago under the dogwoods, seemed placed there by some kindand good Providence to welcome him to his own after all the waitingyears; the child, Cynthia, he had lost while he tarried afar. Manlikehe was ready to accept the woman. But Cynthia was not a woman, and herimmature nature was shocked and betrayed by him who had come claimingwhat she had ready, only for the boy of her childish faith and love. 

Sad at heart, Sandy, after a few moments of readjustment, wentmournfully up the trail leading to the old home-cabin. One brightgleam, alone, cheered him. There had been some mistake. Martin Morleywas evidently alive and to him Sandy must look for welcome and therenewing of old ties. 

The change in the cabin was startling. Empty, but neat and pleasant, the living-room stood open to the fair spring day. Flowers werestanding in the windows in dented tin cans; the hearth was swept freeof ashes and there was a small garden in the rear of the house, nicelylaid out and planted. It seemed so like his own old garden that Sandygazed upon it with strange emotions. He relived sharply the starvedyears of preparation, the cruelty and neglect. He went inside finallyand sat down upon the settle by the hearth and, with bowed head, gavehimself up to memory. 

An hour passed and then a step outside roused him, but he did not turn. 

"Sir, I reckon you be the boss of the new factory. I was a-going downto The Forge to seek you out and ask for work, but Tansey Moore, downto the store, 'lowed that 'twas you who had passed up this-er-way. Ifyou be the boss could you----"

But he got no further. Sandy could not run the risk of another clashof words. 

"Father!" he said, standing up and stretching his arms out pitifully toMartin. "Father!"

Morley recoiled for an instant and his eyes, old and dim, struggled tosee clearly the figure and face before him. But it was not the mortaleyes of the man that saw and knew. It was the _father_ that reachedout with unerring instinct to its own! Martin had never had his dreamsof what his boy was to become; he was there to accept whatever God inHis mercy sent to him. 

"Sandy! lil' Sandy! My boy!"

And then the tottering old frame was gathered in the strong young arms. 

"Dad, dear old Dad. I've got a right good job for you!"

That was all. For a few minutes the clock on the high shelf ticked soloudly that it seemed to fill the room with noise. Neither man spoke, but they clung desperately. Presently a shadow fell across the floorand Sandy turned his head. Old Bob had found his way up from The Forgeand panting and wheezing began to sniff around the room. Almost blind, yet guided by that sense we cannot understand, he had sought his ownand found them. With a soft cry he crouched close to the two standingby the hearth and whined piteously. Martin aroused and stood upright. 

"It's--it's Bob!" he cried. "Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob!" Then falteringly:"It's all right, Bob, she won't trouble you now--she's gone for goodand all!"

That was the only reference to Mary, and Sandy did not tell Martin oflittle Molly's fate for many a day. 

CHAPTER XVIII

If one can forget the languor of the summer and the fear of the winter, a September day among the hills is an experience to set the heartsinging. The fluttering birds in busy preparation for flight, thecarpet of Persian colours and the subtle charm of the smell of woodsmoke in the air, all combine to arouse tender thoughts and pensivedesires. 

On such a day Cynthia Walden ran down the trail from Stoneledge andkept to the side of The Way where the leaves were thickest and the dampsweetness the richest. She wore her blue linen--it had been laundriedmany times since that May morning when Sandy first saw her in it; but, as Sally Taber, working under strict instructions, dried it in a pillowcase--the colour was still true blue and the shrinkage slight. 

Many things had occurred during the past four months. Wonderfulbreath-taking things; things that aroused many emotions and manypassions. For one thing, that brave company in the North, which Sandyrepresented, had actually had the audacity and daring to startoperations on a splendid factory building! Smith Crothers wassullenly, silently watching operations and making, apparently, indifferent threats as to what might be expected to happen to anyHollowite--"man, woman or child"--who turned from him and his intereststo the factory back of Lost Hollow. 

"There ain't any known head to the concern, " he said one night at theCounty Club, "lest you count that youngster of Morley's as a head. Ileave it to you--can you-all trust a Morley?"

The solemn pause before Mason Hope ventured a "no" gave Crothers foodfor reflection. Sandy was making his way into the confidence andappreciation of his people. Slowly, to be sure, so slowly that oftenhe sighed disheartedly, but the change in attitude was noticeable andSandy knew it when the sun shone and Cynthia Walden deigned to speak apleasant word to him. 

Beside the factory and near to it ground had been broken and afoundation laid for a building about which people, especially mothers, spoke in hushed voices. 

"It can't be true, " Liza Hope had said to Mrs. Tansey Moore one day asthey dropped in to Theodore Starr's church to take breath and a dip ofsnuff. "A Home-school! that's what the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady said itwas, and when I axed her to say it plainer and not so polite, she done'splain as how the chillens, our chillens, war to be gathered in fromeverywhere--even factories, --and teached and--and mothered! That's herword--mothered!"

"Don't them-all think us-all is--mothers?" Mrs. Moore sniffedcontemptuously. "Us as borned them reckons we-all is mothers. "

"But it's this-er-way. " Liza was Marcia Lowe's interpreter to thecabin-folk and was gradually drawing them to the point where more thanone had gone voluntarily to Trouble Neck and, after a chat and a cup oftea, had uttered the mystic word "youcum, " which meant, "you call onme. " No higher honour could a mountain woman bestow than this!

But Mrs. Tansey Moore had never taken the little doctor up socially. 

"It's this-er-way. We-all can't act out what's in us-all. You know, Rose-Lily"--Mrs. Moore had one of the funeral-design names which sooften decorated the plainest of her sex among the hills--"we-all justget caught in the wheels and go round like what we-all have to. Ireckon you wouldn't have let your Sammy-Jo into the factory if theheart of you could ha' spoke. Seems like yesterday when I saw them-alltotin' Sammy-Jo up The Way to kiss you good-bye, an' him only ten yearsold an' dyin' o' the hurt o' the wheels. "

Rose-Lily bowed her head on her work-roughened hands and sobbedmiserably. 

"An' I reckon I wouldn' ha' let my po' lil' half-wit chile go--if Icould ha' helped it. When Mason licked him down The Way o' mornin' itmade the soul o' me sick. When the factory burned I thanked A'mightyGod for, starvin' or not starvin, ' the po' lil' feller couldn't go!The night he died in Miss Lowe's cabin when she war tryin' her charm onhim--I jes' war right glad, for the factory down to The Forge war jes'about done and I war thankful he couldn't get caught in the wheelsagin! I tell yo', Rose-Lily, the mother in us-all don't get a chancein The Hollow, but the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady don' say things is goin'to be different. She 'lows that the Home-school will jes' make up tous-all for what's been denied. "

Mrs. Moore moaned softly and shook her head. "It don'tsound--earthly!" she muttered. 

But Cynthia, tripping light-heartedly over the gold and red leaves byThe Way, sang her gayest songs and cared not a rap for the new factoryor the unearthly Home-school; she was thinking of Martin Morley's cabinand the miracle that had been performed there. She was bound for thecabin. Martin would surely be away, for his "job" demanded that heshould watch the men working in gangs on the new buildings. Sandy wasup North. He had been summoned there by Levi Markham, who had wantedto come to The Hollow but had been held back by Sandy. 

"They are taking me hard, " Sandy had written; "let me have time to winthem over before you come. Your money is a great drawback to me. "

Then Markham wrote a characteristic command. The faithful old heartthrobbed through every line and had caused poor Sandy to laugh until hecried:

Then come up North at once with reports and plans. I'm not going tolet you make ducks and drakes of my hard earnings without knowing why. Matilda--isn't very strong. She's taken to counting her blessingsnights instead of sleeping. By the way--have you heard anything ofTreadwell? His new fangled moral van has gone smash, they say; notcalled by its old-fashioned name, and he's--skipped. If you hearanything of him, let me know. 

Sandy had been away ten days and every day Cynthia had gone to thecabin, set it in order for Martin's comfort; revelled in the wonder ofit all and feasted her soul on the books in Sandy's study. 

Cynthia had slowly, reluctantly but finally given up her ideal Sandy ofthe past. She still kept his one letter to her and her hundred and oneletters to him in an oil-cloth package in the old tree. Sometimes shestole away and read them and cried a little, softly, forlornly, as alittle girl might do for a broken doll. "The Biggest of Them All"relegated to his fate, Cynthia had turned to this new son of the Hillswith frank and open mind. She weighed him, considered him and foundhim interesting. She was sensitive to success, and this practical, good natured, kindly Sandy was decidedly successful. He was as modestand unassuming as one could desire, but he had only to wave his handand say so-and-so and lo! the old cabin grew and became beautiful, afactory sprang up, then a dream of a school which included everyone andeverything. It was like a modern fairy story--the most exciting andcompelling thing one could imagine. 

Slowly, cautiously, Cynthia with childish curiosity approached this newbeing who had arisen on her horizon. Sandy, wise in the lore of thehills, lured her as cautiously. He had subdued his own emotions. Hewas a man; his life had developed him; she was still a child with theradiant woman of her blindly, gropingly, looking forth from the dear, blue-gray eyes. He could wait. She would be his dream of the hillsand some day she would come true and he would tell her how he hadalways loved her; how her pale, sweet face, under the dogwood flowers, had kept him strong and pure and unspoiled through all the yearningyears. He could wait until Cynthia, the woman, awoke and--looked athim! In the meantime he worked and grew marvellously happy in hisearnest, quiet way. He made a seat for her in his study window--thoughshe never knew how carefully he had arranged it, or how desperately hehad struggled to get the right colour for the cushions. "Red, " Levihad suggested when approached as to window-seat coverings. "Green, agood dark tone, is a wearing shade, " Matilda had informed him, butSandy chose blue--"the shade that looks as if it sank deeper anddeeper, " he explained to an artistic designer, and the man had notlaughed!

Sandy bought and scattered books about in his study where Cynthia mightrun across them at will, and sometimes during his rare moments ofleisure and enjoyment she would nestle on _her_ window seat in hisstudy while he, his back to her, painted at his easel near the northwindow. At such times Cynthia liked the new Sandy almost as well asthe old and was gloriously content and happy. Poetry entered her lifethen for the first time--poetry through books, through Sandy's modestattempts at art, and through Sandy himself. 

"Let us go out windowing, " he coaxed her one day when they had had agolden hour together. 

"Windowing, Sandy? What is windowing?"

"Why, we'll go around to the cabins and coax or bully the people to letus make windows in their homes--big, fine windows with glass thatslides easy, up and down or sideways as one may prefer. I want it donebefore winter sets in. "

"They-all will think us all-around cracked!"

"Let's try! Windows for sale! we'll cry. It will be mighty jolly. "

So they had set forth with the result that by August Tod Greeleyremarked to Marcia Lowe that he was "dog-dickered if the cabins didn'tlook like showcases surrounded by clapboards!"

When Cynthia reached the Morley cabin that rare September day shepaused to look upon the splendour, and was thrilled anew at the changesand improvements. To the southwest end of the cabin three new roomshad been added. Two bed-chambers and a cosy sitting-room. 

"For that Company up North when it comes down!" Sandy explained. 

"It must be a mighty upperty Company!" Cynthia replied, looking in aweat the furniture which had been sent from some magic workshop. 

"It is!" Sandy assented--viewing solemnly the enamelled bedstead, thecheap chairs and plain bureau. 

"And real carpets on the floors!"

"Yes. The Company has tender feet. "

The old living-room of the cabin had been more leniently dealt with. Sandy's passion for windows had been indulged, but its furnishings weredesigned for comfort without shock to Martin's habits. The kitchen inthe lean-to, also windowed to the limit of space, had been given overto the imagination--nothing else could possibly have accounted forit--of Marcia Lowe. Shining rows of things never dreamed of in TheHollow hung on the walls or graced the shelves. The future might provethem, but the present wreathed them in the charm of mystery. The womencame and looked upon them in silent wonder and talked of them afterwardin hushed voices. A good-sized range, also, stood where once the dirtyhearth was the only shrine to which the family food was intrustedduring preparation. Even Sandy approached this innovation withingrained reluctance, but Marcia Lowe was overcoming his timidity andCynthia had already conquered its mysteries and was instructing Martin. 

The greatest change on the Morley place, however, was the one-time shedbedroom of Sandy. The first time Sandy entered the crumbling shantysuch a wave of bitterness and depression engulfed him that he realizedhe must either reclaim it or it would triumph over him. To tear itdown would not have solved the problem; its absence would have been amore final acknowledgment of his defeat. The years of fear, loneliness, and want were ever to be vital realities of his life; theshed was the setting of his childish agony and spiritual growth--oh, that was it! He must not stamp the poor shell from sight; he mustredeem it as his patient suffering had redeemed him. He must make it aplace to which those he loved, those who needed him, might come knowingthat welcome and understanding awaited them. 

It seemed a miracle to see the dusty, crumbling place evolve into thatbright study with its big, open fireplace, outside chimney, and thesacred window-seat. Overhead were two small bedrooms, opening intoeach other--Martin's and Sandy's. Plain, severe rooms they were; roomsinto which the morning sun shone and into which the setting sun glowedwhen nature smiled. On the shingle roof the rain pattered musically, and no winter cold could conquer the heat which a certain drum stove inMartin's room managed to create and diffuse. On Martin's stand besidehis narrow bed a lamp stood and near it a Bible. Martin had learnedagain to pray and often Sandy read the sacred book to him respectingalways the fiction as to poor eyes and ignoring the illiteracy whichthe old man bitterly and secretly deplored. 

At last Cynthia entered the study after a minute inspection of thehouse. The breakfast dishes were washed and put away; Martin was neatand orderly. His bed had been made and Sandy's was untouched. 

"Still away!" whispered the girl and sank upon the window-seat while athrill of pleasure brought the slow smile to the sensitive lips. 

"Oh, the pretty day!" Then a desire to set the place in perfect orderfor Sandy's possibly near-return caused her to spring up and dartquickly from place to place, straightening a picture here, flicking thedust off the shelves and chairs, and lastly attacking the cluttereddesk which had not been touched since the master went away. 

Sandy was not orderly by instinct. Dirt distressed him, butsuperficial chaos seemed never to disturb him. He could lay his handon whatever he wanted amid the layers of papers, books, and writingmaterial. 

"It's right Sandyish, " murmured Cynthia; "I wonder if he will--mind?"Never before had she thought of arranging the desk. Carefully, almostbreathlessly, she piled some magazines in one place; some papers inanother. The pens and pencils were stuck together in the yawning mouthof a particularly fierce silver gargoyle who evidently had been createdto devour such articles, and then--at the bottom of the mass Cynthiacame upon a book which had been quite hidden from sight. It was anopen book; a book marked at a certain place. There was a strangefamiliarity about the book which caused the girl to take it up withtrembling surprise. The blue and gold cover recalled emotions longsince forgotten. How could she know that Sandy had scoured many aBoston book store for just that edition, causing the proprietors muchannoyance and trouble?

 "Pilgrim's Progress!"

Then backing to the window-seat, Cynthia sat down and feasted her eyesfirst upon the cover, then upon the words marked by an illuminatingpencil:

Without doubt her designs were bad. But stay, now you talk of her, methinks I either have seen her, or have read some story of her. . . . Doth she not speak very smoothly and give you a smile at the end of asentence?

The book fell from Cynthia's hands and lay motionless on her lap. Herfair face raised itself rigidly and the clear eyes looked, not at thecheerful, home-room, but back through the years: the sombre, shabbyyears--until they caught and held a girl of twelve demandingsomething--something so tremendous!--from a poor, trembling boy but alittle older than herself! Then the old, half-doubting promise soundedand--a kiss fell upon Madam Bubble's lifted mouth!

"Oh!" The word came on a shuddering sigh and the fixed eyes falteredin their rapt look. A flood of rosy colour spread from brow to chin, and shame--not joy--claimed Cynthia Walden. Understanding rushed uponher, a blind, hideous, wrong understanding, but none the less terrible. Cynthia had forgotten the shadow of her parentage--for many years ithad sunk into insignificance. The years had ignored it, no call hadcome for its recognition, but now--she understood. She had always beenmore the daughter of her bad father than of her sad mother! That waswhy she, a little girl, had spoken so to Sandy and brought that strangelook to his face! She had not comprehended it then, but she rememberedit now! It confronted her like a tangible thing. Because she was herfather's daughter Smith Crothers had--kissed her! Men wanted to kissher! On that fearsome night of the fire Crothers had only shocked andwounded the outer fold of Cynthia's soul; the innermost shrine had beenguarded by the woman Cynthia was by and by to become; but now Cynthiafelt she _was_ that woman and all subterfuge was denied. 

Sandy understood. He had not forgotten. Out in his big, free world hehad learned what Madam Bubbles were and still he had come back and beenkind to her! Sandy never forgot. Big, brave, and tender, he had sethimself to the task of keeping his word and fulfilling his vision. Hehad shielded poor Molly--he had told her the pitiful story without itsgruesome details! He had come back to Lost Mountain to help the menand women and save the baby-things! He had come home to--keep his wordwith her, with Madam Bubble! That was why he was so gentle, sothoughtful. 

"Oh! oh!" The moan was almost a wail, but no tear dimmed the largeeyes. 

"The Biggest of Them All!" Then the strained face relaxed and a glorytouched it. 

"But I--I can be next biggest, " she faltered. "You are rightnoble--but I can help you, Sandy!"

Then very reverently the book was replaced upon the desk and a penciltaken from the gargoyle's mouth. Clearly, distinctly, another passagewas traced by a wavering mark:

The man in the cage, the man and his dream, the man that cut his waythrough his enemies--the biggest of them all!

Sandy was to read those words by and by with varied emotions!

Then, having marked and turned to the page originally left open, Cynthia drew herself up and looked about the dear room as if taking alast look before going on a long journey. 

And so Sandy came upon her. He had arrived at The Forge earlier in theday and had walked up The Way because his heart was full of the joy oflife and he wanted to be alone and think his thoughts. He had been solonely without his father, Lost Mountain, his people and--Cynthia! Noteven the love and gratitude he held for Levi Markham and Matilda couldhold him long from his own, without regret. And they were coming tohim soon--the Markhams--they were coming for the holidays and he mustmake ready!

Noiselessly he entered his study and stood for a moment revelling inthe sight of the girl of his thoughts, materializing before his amazedeyes. He could hardly believe his senses; the day, the place, werebewitched, and he had been so hungry for--just this! Unconsciously hestretched out his arms and his strong, dark face was flushed; hisserious eyes glad and kind. 

"Little Cyn!"

She turned, and her colour faded. Pale, imploring, she almost ran tohim. 

"Sandy!"

Now that she had understood and triumphed she could afford to be kind, too, and strong and brave. Something in the frank, unflinching eyeswarned Sandy to content himself with the outstretched hands, althoughthe soul of him yearned to hold the girl to him. 

"You are glad to see me back, lil' Cyn?"

The old intonation thrilled the listener, but her eyes held true. 

"Oh! so glad. 'Tis a mighty empty room you leave, Sandy Morley, whenyou go away. "

"Cynthia--I wonder if I dare tell you something?"

"Yes. " It were better now and over with!

"Do you remember that once I made a promise to you, dear?"

This was unfortunate, but the girl took it without a quiver of thewhite lids. 

"All my life, since manhood came to me, and it came early, little girl, I have lived and dreamed of the hour when--I might keep that promise. I have waited because you seem still a child to me, dear, but I--wantyou! I want the child of you--I will hold it sacred and win the womanof you by and by. Do you not remember how in those old, old days itwas you who taught me, awoke my imagination and--helped me to my own?Dear lil' Cyn--help me now! Help me help these dear people, yours andmine! I need you so, sweetheart, and I will be good to you! Marry me, lil' Cyn, marry me right away and let us go on together! I can do somuch for you and yours--sweet----"

But Sandy got no farther. The hands in his wrenched themselves freeand sought his shoulders. The very frankness and simplicity of thegesture sent a chill to Sandy's heart. 

"Big, good Sandy!" There was a subtle plea in glance and words. Thegirlish need was driving the desperate woman back and out of sight. Cynthia could not kill the truth that had been born within her, but shecould blind it, stun it and still keep for her own what the childishcraving demanded. 

"Big, good Sandy! Please be my Sandy, like you were a brother. Iwould be so lonely without you; I would miss this--this dear placemighty bad--but if you say such words, if you forget I am still lil'Cyn, why don't you see--I cannot come up this-er-way any more?"

So perfect was the attempt that it took all the girl's pride andstrength to hold it. It was a bit overdone and Sandy fell back a stepwith a memory that Cynthia would never have resurrected had she had herway. 

"I--am not worthy of you, Cynthia. I had forgotten, dear. You see, for seven years I have lived where such things did not matter; I havelearned that they do _not_ matter when all is said and done. Can younot trust me and forget that a Walden and a Morley are different----"

"Oh! Sandy!" and now the white, white face turned scarlet--"you thinkthat of me?"

"It's in the blood of us all, Cynthia, but you and I, by forgettingit--can do so much. "

"It is not that, Sandy. "

"I know, dear, that I am old beside you--I know that I dare much when Isay I am willing to take you, child as you are, and run the risk ofmaking you love me while the woman of you--grows! I will help itgrow--God help me! How I will glory in the task and if I fail----"

Sandy had drawn her hands from his shoulders and now held them fast andclose. 

"I will make you free, set you as free as you are to-day, my whiteblossom girl! You cannot understand; but God hears me and I swear it!"

Cynthia did _not_ understand, but his fine passion flooded her soulwith white light. 

"How wonderful you are, " she whispered. "You stand out big and highlike our mountain----"

At that word Sandy closed his eyes, for he dared not look upon thedear, slow-smiling lips. 

"But, Sandy, you are covered with--with mist like Lost Mountainsometimes is. Let me find you, Sandy, not as you would help me findyou, but in my own way. Will you do this for--lil' Cyn?"

Without opening his eyes Sandy drew the clinging hands to his lips andkissed them. 

"When you find me, dear heart, dear heart, will you tell me or give mea sign?"

"Yes, Sandy. "

"And now--where are you going, Cynthia?"

For the girl was turning from him. 

"Just down The Way. I must watch with Aunt Ann. She is a mightytroublesome lil' child these days. Good-bye. "

They looked tenderly, frankly, in each other's eyes and then the girlwas gone. 

And that night Cynthia sat beside Ann Walden and kept watch and guardwhile faithful Sally slept. The bedchamber was very quiet and only atallow candle lighted the gloom. The figure stretched out upon the bedwas deathlike in its rigid motionlessness, and Cynthia's hand lay overthe thin, old wrinkled ones for fear in a drowsy moment the woman mightelude her. 

It was past midnight when Ann Walden stirred and opened her eyes. Cynthia was alert at once, but the light that shone on the old facerevealed an expression which had not rested there for many a day. 

"Queenie!"

A cold horror overcame Cynthia, but she held her position and whispered:

"Yes. "

"Go to bed, honey. I'm--I'm sorry. "

"Never mind, dear. " Cynthia meant to play the old sad game that wasthe only one possible with the poor creature on the bed. 

"I reckon it was--Thorndyke Bothwell over by Susie May Lanley's, wasn'tit?"

"Yes, dear. "

"Why didn't you tell me, Queenie? Why didn't you-all trust me. I--Ididn't mean to--be hard. "

"No, dear. Never mind. Go--to sleep now. "

"Thorndyke Bothwell, he went away--but there must be--some one toremember. The--letter--take it--to----"

Then a spasm passed over the grim face upon the pillow. The fleetingsanity was vanishing--"The hearthstone--her--down at Trouble----"

The candle flickered up luridly. The weak voice of the old woman shookand the eyes lost the lustre. 

"You must bide with her--at Trouble----"

Cynthia could not understand; she had never seen the light fade fromthe face of one she loved, so the fixed stare, the cessation of speech, did not alarm her. 

"See, dear Aunt Ann, I will put my head down on your pillow, so! Therenow! Shut your eyes right close, and I'll sing you to sleep, honey. "

The candle decided to splutter once more, and give up the struggle. The long wick curled over, the tiny beam faded, and was--gone. 

 Through the long night watches, May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed. 

Like a little mother crooning over her frightened child, Cynthia sangthe words tenderly. Marcia Lowe had taught her the words and tuneafter her fright at the time of the fire. It had been Cynthia's firstevening song; she had often quieted her sudden fears in the dark nightsby repeating the tender words:

 Through the long night watches----

and sleeping, surely with white wings above them, Ann Walden andCynthia lay side by side when old Sally came to rouse them. 

Shocked and frightened, Sally got Cynthia from the room without thegirl realizing the conditions. Pacifying her by a promise to "take herturn" at the bedside, she left the girl in her own chamber while sheran, panting, stumbling--often pausing to rest--to Trouble Neck. 

"Ole Miss Ann don' gone out at the turning o' the tide, " she sobbed toMarcia Lowe. 

"And little Cyn?"

"Come, oh! come, " pleaded Sally; "fo' she cotch on. "

"And now, " thought the doctor as she mounted her horse with Sallyastride behind, "I'm going to bring your little girl home, UncleTheodore, and take my chance and your chance with her!"

CHAPTER XIX

Old Sally Taber sat in the full glow and warmth of an early Octoberafternoon and looked about Sandy Morley's kitchen. The glow came fromthe sun which streamed through the broad window; the warmth emanatedfrom the stove which Marcia Lowe had trained Sally to understand andrespect. The cooking utensils, too, had become tractable objects inSally's determined hands, for with a perpetual land of promise andfulfillment in sight, the old woman had rallied her forces for thehomestretch. 

Since the day when Ann Walden was laid in the family plot and Cynthiahad been taken to Trouble Neck, Sally had lived in Sandy Morley's cabinand gloried in the title of "housekeeper. "

"Three weeks, " muttered Sally, sitting with her skirts well drawn up;her feet, encased in "old woman's comforts, " resting comfortably in theoven of the stove. 

"Three whole weeks an' po'k chops every day when there ain't somethingbetter. "

With that she got up, went to a corner cupboard and brought out her canof vaseline. 

"Yo' lyin' ole chile, " she muttered; "yo' can sho' res' from yo'labours. This am a lan' o' honey an' the honeycomb. "

Then voluntarily Sally raised the lid of the stove and pushed the tincan in upon a blazing piece of wood. The flames caught the grease andlicked it greedily from the outer side of the box:

"Massa Fire, " laughed Sally; "yo' like dat po'k chop?"

Then the heat hungrily battled for more and "pop" flew the cork andback leaped Sally. 

"Gawd!" she gasped. "I sho' didn't think yo' would take itthat-er-way. I was only foolin'!"

Sally had made great strides. She could laugh and joke with assurancein her heart. Sandy Morley had promised that she might have a home tothe end of her days in Martin's cabin--the glorified cabin--and Sally, like many another, was learning to trust Sandy as no one had ever beentrusted in Lost Hollow before. Sally rarely gave expression to hersentiments; she did not mean to permit the child whom she had helpedMartin bring through his "teething, " and whom she had spanked many atime, to get the upper hand; but she prayed by her very comfortable bedin the loft over the living-room that she might cook to Sandy's likingand prove herself worthy the blessing God bestowed upon her in her oldage. 

Glaring at the stove and not daring to risk another outburst ofindignation, Sally stood helpless when Sandy entered the sunny kitchen. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. 

"Dat stove done have a real human sense, " Sally replied; "an open firewe-all can reckon with an' keep an eye on, but yo' shet fire up in apackin' box an' who knows what's goin' on in its min'?"

Sandy laughed, put the lid in its place and sat on the table, swingingone long leg comfortably. He gloried in the element of home that hehad brought about him and to see Sally in the kitchen always gave him adistinct thrill. 

"Make some gingerbread for supper, " he pleaded, "and give me thelickings, Sally. Do you know I never had lickings until I went toMassachusetts. "

"Lands! Sandy Morley, I don' gave you millions mysef! Yo' pa wasallas fur lettin' yo' off, but I lathered yo' mo'n once, chile, an' sosaved yo' fo' yo' luck. "

"I mean 'leavings' in the bowl when the cake's ready for the oven. Come Sally, let me help you get things together. Molasses, spices, milk----"

"I'll get the res'. Now, son, do tackle this yere can o' risin'powder. Take this yere Handy Andy an' pry the kiver. Seems like thesenew-fangled cookin' yarbs is put up jes' ter try the patience ob desaints. "

Sandy took the instrument, and utilizing one of its many powers, loosened the cover and handed the baking powder to Sally. 

"I wonder how you ever kept your hand in at cooking?" he said musinglyas he reflected upon the past. But Sally was on guard. 

"Lor, chile! an' why not? Ain't I allas had my own po'k and bacon?Ain't I lived up to the Great House fo' years an' years?"

"Of course. And Sally, that reminds me. I'm going to buy the GreatHouse and--make it as it was before the war!"

"Gawd!" gasped Sally. 

"I shall want you to tell me exactly how it looked--you can remember?"

"Why, yes, chile!" Sally's hand paused, spoon in air. "I can see itsame as it was yesterday. That-er Yankee man they called Sheridan--hepassed up by The Way an' he stopt right on the home-place o'Stoneledge, an' General Walden he was there, an' old Miss, an' lil'Miss Ann--she was right little an' young then but mighty peart. I wasstayin' at the Great House then, fo' it was near the time when lil'Miss Queenie was goin' ter be born--her as died up Norf at ahorse-pittal. Well, that-er-Yankee Sheridan he don' say to GeneralWalden, 'We-all is near starvin'. ' Jes' like a-that! An' GeneralWalden he don' say, standin' upperty an' mighty, 'We-all will sharewith yo', general, bein' war is war. ' Then what-er-yo' think? Lil'Miss Ann she pearked up an' says right to his face: 'Yo' can't haveAnna Isabel!' She never batted an eye when she spoke up, an' I thoughtI'd bust. The Yankee he don' ax who Anna Isabel was, an' lil' Miss Annsaid right stiff, 'She be my turkey--she be our Christmas dinner. ' An'jes' then Anna Isabel stalked straight-er-way befo' dat man Sheridanan' lil' Miss Ann pointed an' says 'There's Anna Isabel!' Well, we-alllaughed an' I will say this for that Yank, he was powerful 'spectful tous-all. 'I'm bleeged to come in an' res' an' have a meal, ' he don'said, and then he went on with his pack totin' at his heels. 

"Fo' de Lord, Sandy Morley, shet off that snortin', roarin' fire orI'll fetch yo' a real old-time lick!"

Sandy ran to regulate the dampers, his face radiant and boyish. He wasenjoying, as he never had enjoyed anything in his life before, the dearhome-atmosphere of his hills. 

Sally Taber returned to her task with energy born of appreciation. 

"We'll fix the old house of Stoneledge up in great shape, " Sandy said, coming back to the table and leaning forward on his hands to followSally's energetic manipulation of the gingerbread; "that ought to besomething for the rest of us to live up to. I'd like to see littleMiss Cynthia installed there as mistress!"

"Her ain't of the Walden blood----" Sally remarked, breathlesslybeating the golden brown batter. Sandy winced. "But her has caughtthe manners. "

"And, " Sandy steered away from the danger ground, "we'll have theHome-school. It must be a home first; a school afterward, Sally. Iwant the baby-things to have the 'lickings' of cakes and puddings inthe kitchen--it is to be a great, big, sunny kitchen! And I want themto have bedtime stories and soft songs. " Sandy's eyes, tender andluminous, looked beyond Sally and rested on the gentle slope of LostMountain. "I want them to have what every child has a right to andwhich our children have never had. "

Sally was thoughtfully baling the light cake into the long, shallowtins:

"I clar' I don't know, " she muttered, "how Smith Crothers is goin' to'commodate hisself to yo'!" Then she shivered and stood upright, hernostrils sniffing and her eyes alert like a deer in the wilds. "I don'thought, " she murmured, "dat I heard a step and saw a shadder fallin'!Seems like the wind is changin', fetchin' chill an' storm!"

Sandy, with the superstition of The Hollow responding in his blood, went to the window overlooking The Way. Just turning into the trailleading up to the cabin a tall, lithe form swung in sight. Welldressed, carrying a modern suitcase, and whistling, gayly came thestranger. At the moment of recognition Sandy felt a cold aloofnessoverpower him. He spoke, as if to convince a doubting listener: "I--Ireckon that is Lans Treadwell! Treadwell, of all people!"

But Sandy pulled himself together and went to greet his visitor withcharacteristic warmth and cordiality. He believed it was only surprisethat had swayed him earlier. Lans, somehow, could not easily be fixedinto place in the rough hill life. Lans, always at his ease in Boston, seemed oddly out of tune in Lost Hollow. But try as he might, Sandycould not feel like himself, with Treadwell's cheerful laugh andbig-hearted, patronizing jollity resounding through the cabin. He wastoo desperately and determinedly bent upon being "one of them" to becomfortable. 

"By Jove! Morley, " he exclaimed, when Sandy had drawn him into theliving room; "this is a place. You've worked wonders here. I havealways wanted to see you in your family--is that your--your mother?"For Sally Taber could be seen and heard through the half-open doorleading to the kitchen. 

"No. My mother has been long dead. My father will return by eveningmeal time. Come in here, Lans--you see I have unoccupied quarters----"He led him to Levi's apartments. "Make yourself comfortable. I'llstart a fire on the hearth in this bedroom and the adjoiningsitting-room. "

"Well, I'll be"--Treadwell glanced about at the plainluxury--"eternally flambusted! If you are not a----" Then he laughed. 

It was after the evening meal which Sally served in silent, morosedignity, that the three men went to Sandy's study. The shed-rooms wereattached to the main cabin by a narrow hallway and this passage wasdark and cold. Coming from it into the warmth and glow of the roomfilled with books and pictures, Treadwell paused to glance about andexclaim before he took the easiest chair by the hearth and acceptedpipe and tobacco. Martin was ill at ease and looked helplessly now andagain to his son for leadings with this stranger who laughed soconstantly and regarded him as if he were a person of inferiority andlack of intelligence who must, nevertheless, be treated with kindnessand tolerance. 

"I suppose, " Treadwell remarked when the three had finally settled intosome kind of comfort, "I suppose, Sand, you wonder how I found you out?"

Sandy had wondered but had restrained his curiosity. He looked now atthe big, handsome fellow and again was seized with the sense of chillthat he had felt in the afternoon. 

"It sounds like a fairy story--a best seller or what you will. By andby"--he glanced at Martin as though to suggest a time when he would beabsent--"I've got a lot to tell you, but something turned turtle in myaffairs and got on to my nerves. Aunt Olive made me consult DoctorTravers, he's my uncle's pet aversion, you know, because he wanted AuntMatilda to go into his sanatorium and Uncle Levi considered it aninsult. Well, I saw Travers and he advised a vacation. 'Get to thehills, ' he suggested, 'and browse a bit. Why don't you go up to thatplace--a hole in the ground, ' he called it, 'where your uncle hassent--Morley?' And then it all came out, and by Jove! I found outthat you hailed from the place of my forefathers!"

At this Martin dropped his pipe on the hearth and fixed his dim eyes onthe stranger's face. Back rolled the years that had been but stagnantpools in poor Martin Morley's life; into focus came the simple hatesand injustices that had brought him where he was. 

"Your--forefathers!" he gasped, while a weird familiarity andresemblance to--he knew not what--made Treadwell something tangible andactual at last. 

"Yes. We still own a good bit of land over beyond the place called TheForge. I've been having a look at it. It's run wild and rank, but itmight be reclaimed, I suppose. There is a depraved old squatter on theplace; lives in an old smoke-house. He actually remembered mygrandfather and what do you think, Morley"--Lans had turned his backupon Martin, whose fixed stare and rigid pose disturbed him--"the oldcodger actually told me half of a story the other half of which AuntOlive and I have often laughed over. Oddly enough it is a new andanother connecting link between you and me. We're throw-backs, oldfellow! Throw-backs and neither of us realizing it, but just naturallycoming together. "

Sandy was looking at his father. Martin was pale and haggard and hisbony hands clutched his thin knees until the knuckles were strained andwhite. 

"Hertford!" whispered Martin; "Hertford!"

"Sure thing!" Lans gave a laugh. "See, I'm discovered even in thisdisguise. " He nodded toward the old man as one might toward animbecile who had shown a gleam of intelligence. "Lansing Hertford ismy real name; named for a grandfather just as you are, Sandy Morley. You see I've patched the scraps together. It was your grandfather andmine who were good pals way back in the musty ages. Some one played apractical joke on them and the friendship went up in thin air. It'sleft for you and me to pick up the pieces and--cement them together. Iwonder if you ever heard about the bottle of stuff my grandfather gaveyour grandfather to bring home from--from Turkey, I think it was. Ourforebears were globe trotters in a day when to trot meant to makehistory. "

"I--I've heard it, " Sandy muttered, his eyes still fixed on hisfather's rigid face. 

"Did you ever hear the--joke?"

"Joke? No! Was there a joke?"

"Yes. Your relative stopped in Paris--he was a jolly old buckaccording to reports--and he hugged that everlasting bottle so close tohim that some fellows--sounds beastly frivolous to refer to thosedignified shades as fellows--but, anyway, some chaps from round abouthere were doing gay Paree just then and they caught on to yourgrandsire's devotion to that phial; they called it his Passion, hismistress, and one night when he had left it hidden in his room theyfound it, emptied out the contents--some kind of cologne it was--andfilled it with water! They never heard the outcome, but Aunt Olive andI have often wondered how--some mountain girl probably enjoyed hersmelling salts, or perfume, or whatever it was!"

Sandy could not move. He was spellbound, but Martin struggled to hisfeet and stood towering over Lans Treadwell, shaking as with ague. 

"I reckon I can tell you how it--turned out, " he said, while his poorold chin quivered as if the effort was almost more than he couldendure. "It war this-er-way. He came home to The Hollow, Sandy'sgrandfather, an' he brought the bottle of--water! Oh! my God--and themas opened the bottle--found out and began--to whisper! They allwhispered an' nudged ole Sandford Morley out of life an' inter hisgrave. They-all hinted that he war a thief, a betrayer of his friend, but he war that upright and clean that he war deaf to whispers an'he--he didn't know the language of dirty slurs and off looks from themas war once his friends! He went to his grave without knowing what hadedged him outer the respect of his neighbours. Then the lie grew an'grew an' took the life an' souls outer us-all an' made us po'whites--us as war as good an' better than your kin!"

A terrible fury was rising in Martin, and Sandy, unable to clarify thesituation, paused before entering the fray. 

"Then Sandy here, he got his call an' rose up to save us-all. Out inthe world he found--you. You've come here--for what? for what?"

"Father!" At last Sandy was beside the old man. "Father, remember heis our guest! He has come to clear--can you not see--he hascleared--our name!"

Exultation and joy flooded Sandy; and his touch on his father's arm, the thrill in his voice had power to calm the old man. 

"Good God!" Treadwell exclaimed, rising and facing the two; "is it outof such stuff, such dreams, such grudges, such shabby jokes, the lifeof the hills is made?"

"Yes. " Sandy whispered, "out of such stuff we come--or remain! Youcan never know what you have done for us, Lans. Father will realize itlater--he's nearer the past than I am. For myself I--thank you! Youhave, well, you cannot understand, but it's like you had put a broad, wide window in our lives, letting in sunshine and sweet air where mouldand rot had once been. "

He stretched his hand out frankly and tried to push his father forwardto do the same, but Martin turned away, the tears streaming from hiseyes. Sandy was looking to the future; Martin to the past; and LansingTreadwell stood between the two with a light laugh upon his lips and avague, contemptuous wonder in his eyes. 

CHAPTER XX

They had tramped the hills together, Sandy and Lans. They had gonecarefully over the plans for the factory and Home-school, had seen thegrowing building of the former and revelled in the dreams of the latter. 

"It proves my liking for you, old chap, " Lans had said, "when I canlook at all this and not envy you. You see, Uncle Levi wanted to trainme in the way I should go, but I got a twist in the wrong directionand--well! I never squeal. That's about all the philosophy orreligion I have--I never squeal! Live your life; take your chances andsqueal not! Then you remember I used to tell you that I was a bigbungling giant? You've got the vision and the leading. But to thinkof Uncle Levi putting the reins in your hands! I can imagine himletting any one he likes hold the _end_ of the reins--but he's leanedback and is letting you drive. "

"Yes--but only because his big, wise head and loving heart tell himthis is a safe road to travel. "

"Oh! I don't know. Who's going to be any the better for--all this?There's a lot of Tommyrot about charity. If I were going to splurgeI'd do it in the middle of the stage and make an advertisement of it atthe same time. It's cheaper and more sensible. Why, if Uncle Leviwould spend in Boston what he's spending up here--he'd have the worldtalking about his mills. "

Sandy turned away. He was thinking of what Levi had said to him a fewweeks before as he was ending his visit in Bretherton. 

"Son"--he was "son" to the old brother and sister after that tripabroad--"son, go back to your hills and see in every ragged boy--SandyMorley! In every little lass--your sister Molly! Gather them in, son, gather them in, and let us help them as we helped you to--come outcleaner and better. Work up there, son, as if God Almighty's eye alonewas upon you. Men have forgotten the hill people, but God called youto lead them out of bondage. "

"It pays to advertise, " Lans was remarking. 

"Yes, " Sandy returned; "and Mr. Markham advertises in a most originaland picturesque way. "

Through all the walks and drives round about The Hollow, Sandy inwardlyprayed that Cynthia might not materialize. Why he so strongly desiredthis he could not tell. He liked Lans; enjoyed his visit andcompanionship, but he hoped he would leave before Cynthia appeared. Hegrew restless at times and found himself longing to tell Treadwell thatthe Markhams were coming to The Hollow for Christmas, and the roomsoccupied by Lans would be needed. But the days went by and Cynthiakept from sight. The truth was, Sally Taber had gone to Trouble Neckand spread the news and warning. 

"You-all bes' stay away, " she said; "dis yere Yank be right triflin'and polite. He makes us-all feel like we war dirt under his feet. Iclar' I'd like to work an evil charm on him! Ole Mr. Morley he don'take naturally to the woods an' leaves them young gem'men tothemselves. I keep the do' closed 'twixt them an' me--he makes me feellike there was traps set fo' my feet. "

"You must be having a real gay time up there!" Marcia Lowe replied, laughing at poor old Sally's indignation. 

"Well, I'se cookin' mo' an' mo' monstrous every day. If that Yank canstan' what I have in store fo' him from now on, I reckon he don' got astummick like a beast o' burden. "

"Ah! poor Sandy, " Cynthia cried; "you'll kill him, too. I reckon I'llcome up and bring him food at night and put it in his study. "

"Not just yet, little Cyn, " Marcia Lowe replied, putting a protectingarm about the girl. "Cynthia's a bit run down, " she explained toSally; "off her feed a little. We're going to have a holiday. What doyou think?--Mr. Greeley is going to take us 'over the hills and faraway'--about twenty-five miles away! He's going over to make a willfor an old man who is dying and he's invited us to share his carriage. Take good care of the Morleys, Sally, and let's hope the stranger willleave before we return. I'm getting real Southern in my tastes and ampositively suspicious of Northerners!"

And it was a few nights after the night that Tod Greeley, with MarciaLowe and Cynthia tucked comfortably away in the back seat of hiscarry-all, started on their trip, that Lans Treadwell and Sandy Morleysat before the fire in the study and had their talk--the talk thatillumined the path on ahead for Sandy. 

"Old fellow!" exclaimed Lans, taking the cushions from the window-seatand tossing them back again from where he stood in the middle of theroom; "never _place_ sofa pillows--chuck 'em! Only by so doing can yougive that free and easy grace that distinguishes a Frat cosy cornerfrom a drawingroom torture chamber. "

Every cushion that Treadwell tossed seemed to strike with a thud onSandy's heart. It was as if Treadwell were hurting little Cyn as shesat in her window-seat with her dear face turned toward them. 

"Come, sit down, Lans. You are as nervous as a ghost-candle. "

"Thanks!" Treadwell took a chair across the hearth from his host. "There's a devil of a storm rising out of doors. "

"They're right common this season of the year. About six or sevenyears ago there was one up here that came mighty near ending theexistence of a good many--it did carry one poor old darky woman away. "

"That's cheerful! Sand, forgive me if I seem brutal, but do you know Ibelieve the cooking up here is giving me indigestion. I wouldn't mindthis if I didn't have your anatomy in mind, too. Those--what do youcall them?"

"Ash cakes?"

"Yes. They were, to put it mildly, damnable. "

Sandy laughed. 

"They were right ashy, " he admitted. "Sally is old and careless. "

"She'll murder you, if you don't look out. "

Sandy kicked a log farther back on the hearth and the room was filledwith rosy light and warmth. 

"Your father doesn't seem particularly drawn to me, Sand. Does healways retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his--hisevening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!"

Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his ownthoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him. 

"I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactlyas he chooses. You must not take offence. "

"Certainly not. Only I do not want to feel I drive him away or depriveyou of his companionship. Ever since I told the joke about that bottleof perfumery he seems to avoid me. "

"Father hasn't a sense of humour, " Sandy ventured, striving to keep thebitterness of resentment from his voice. 

"The devil!" ejaculated Lans. "That log spits like a hag. A sparkfell straight on my ankle. "

"Excuse it, " Sandy murmured, smiling as Lans nursed his silk-enclosedankle. 

"Hang it all, Sand! I've got to get back to civilization!"

Sandy bent over the fire to conceal his feelings. "Not to-night, surely, " he said. 

"No, but in a day or so. Morley, I--I want to tell you something. Tell you why I cut and came up here right in the middle of things athome. "

The storm outside pounded on the windows; the fire flared and chuckledcrisply. Sandy thought about Cynthia, wondered where she was, and thenhe became conscious of something Treadwell was saying. 

"There was a time, Sand, when I couldn't have come to you with this. Ithought you were such an infernal puritan--but Aunt Olive has told meof that--that little affair of yours which ended so--well so happilytragical, and it has made you seem more human. Of course there couldhave been no better way out for you and--her, and Uncle Levi was abrick to overlook it. I've liked him better for it, but my affair isanother matter. "

Sandy gazed dumbly at Treadwell and could not frame words to call theother to a halt. Not comprehending what Lans knew or misunderstood, having no intention of explaining--he simply stared and then turned tomend the fire. 

"My affair--is different. You know about it--partially?"

"I've heard something. It was none of my business. " A sternness creptinto Sandy's voice which Treadwell entirely misunderstood. 

"Well, because it was possible for me to come to you; because of all myfriends, you seemed in this hour of trouble, the only one I _could_come to, I want you to make it your business, Sand. "

The low-pitched, pleading voice awoke sympathy. It was that tone andmanner which had caused people to straighten out the snarls of LansTreadwell's life from babyhood up. There was capitulation. It was asif he had said: "I deserve no pity, no comfort, but--give them to me!"It awoke all the spontaneous desire for his happiness in everytender-hearted person who knew and liked him. 

"I'm not indifferent, Lans. I only meant that in your friendship andmine there have always been reservations. You took me up because ofyour generous friendliness; you helped me mightily. I never felt theslightest inclination to penetrate into your private life, and my ownwas of such a nature that I was obliged to live it alone. My yearsaway from the mountains were years of preparation to come back. Everyhand held out to me was but a power to help me on my course. I havenever--except recently with the Markhams--ever taken anythingpersonally. I have always recognized that I was called to serve mypeople; I have been grateful, but I have never appropriated. "

Treadwell looked hard at the fine, dark face touched now to vividbeauty by the rich glow of the fire. 

"And I know few fellows who have won out as you have, " he saidadmiringly. "You have that in you, about you, that attracts andcompels. People trust you, like you--need you when a pinch comes. "

"Thank you, Lans. "

"And God knows I want you, need you, now!"

Sandy put out his hand, Treadwell gripped it, then both leaned back intheir chairs and the story came, set to the wild strains of themountain storm. 

"She was one of those little creatures born to be the plaything ofFate. When she was seventeen she married Jack Spaulding--he was partgenius, but more fool. He was caught by the girl's spirituality andbrightness and he couldn't any more comprehend her than a raw-bonedIndian could understand a water sprite. To him she was a woman hewanted--nothing more. He got her and when he wasn't lost in the mazeof invention he permitted her--Good God!--he permitted her to supplythe needs and yearnings of the--the man in him. Poor, little entrappedsoul! She struggled between duty and loathing until her Guardian Angelsaved her. When Spaulding was going through his ups and downs offortune she stood by him. His downs were oftener and longer than hisups and she was pure grit and a bully little sport. Then he got on hisfeet with a vengeance. He could give her anything and, like a big, blundering savage he began to load her down with _things_ and make hisdemands for payment and she--up and left him!"

Sandy felt that the heat of the room was oppressive, but he held hisposition and flinched not. 

"Poor, little white-souled girl! She left him and tackled life withher wits and her two pretty hands. I met her during my senior year. She was reporting for a Boston paper, getting starvation wages; livinglike a bird in two rooms of a high-pitched house off in a desolatecorner of town and thanking God for her--escape and freedom. Well, Ilost my heart to her and you know how I and my set feel about certainthings. Laws are all right for the--herd; a present help for thehelpless; protection for the happy, and all the rest, but they shouldbe handled wisely and discriminately by the intelligent minority. She--Marian Spaulding held the same views!"

"Why--didn't she divorce him--her husband?" Somehow the questionsounded crude and unnecessary on Sandy's lips. 

"For form's sake, she tried. Spaulding would not let her. He was anugly devil and he just couldn't understand any woman snapping herfingers at his big money. He meant to starve her out, but he--well, hegot left!

"I took rooms out near Cambridge. At first we were--friends! I wantedher to have time and quiet to think it out her own way. Learn to trustme; come to me of her own accord and because she was large enough tochoose the braver course. "

The heat was stifling Sandy, but he gripped the arms of his chair andkept still. 

"She--she came to me willingly--three months ago! I've known and shehas known, Sand, such bliss as only free, untrammeled souls can knowwho have gone through hell fire and proven themselves!"

Sandy almost sprang up. "You won't mind, " he said jerkily, "if I raisethe window? The room is like a furnace. "

When he came back to his place, Lans, head bent forward in claspedhands, was ready for him. 

"Women are all alike in some ways. They never dare let go entirely andplunge! They hold on to something, get frightened, and scurry back totradition. Three weeks ago Spaulding sent for her--for Marian. He'dlost everything; was ill and needed her. She went! I found anote--that's all. "

"Well!" Then having said that one word, Sandy sought about in hisconfused mind for another. Again he said, "Well!" and waited. 

"I--I cannot be happy without her. The longer I stay away the strongerher claim seems to me. I must go back and--try again. "

"Try--what?"

Sandy felt the cool, wet outer air touch his face as he leaned forward, for at last Lans Treadwell had aroused him. He was not, however, thinking of Lans and his yearnings; he was thinking of a little, unknown woman who was following the gleam of her conscience, whilelove, selfish love, was ready to spring upon her with its demands, before she had wrestled with and solved her own problem. 

"Try--what?"

"To get her away from Spaulding; get her back to me and--happiness. Wewere happy, God knows we were!"

"If you--if she were happy, then her going proved something strongerthan happiness called her. "

"Women are like that. They hold the world back by their conventionsand conservations. They ask for freedom and--and equality, and thenthey cling to tradition in spite of all. "

"I reckon, " Sandy's eyes were troubled and tender, "I reckon we-allbetter keep our hands off for a while and watch out to see them, thewomen, solve what is their business. They-all may want freedom and therest--but it must be--as they see freedom and equality, Lans. I'mmighty sure in every woman's heart there is the beginning of a pathleading--out and up, that they can find better alone. Why don't youwait until--until this little"--Sandy dropped into the sweet"lil"--"this little woman comes to you. "

"She'd never come!" Lans half groaned; "you do not know how traditionwould hold her there. She'd starve rather than to call me now. "

Sandy was thoughtful a moment. He saw that Treadwell probably wasright there, but a strange sense of protection rose in his heart. Hefelt he must protect that distant, strange woman from Lans in hispresent mood. 

"Then I reckon you better stand off and watch unseen, Lans. " Sandymade a bold stroke: "Are you thinking of her only? I'm mighty sure, Treadwell, in a case like this you ought not, you--dare not think ofany one but her!"

The bald, rigid reasoning struck Lans Treadwell like the cold draughtfrom the open window. 

"Good God! Sand, " he ejaculated, "let me shut that sash down. The coldgets into your heart as if it were driven by some infernal machine. "

Sandy got up and pulled the glass down sharply, but he could not, thereby, bring comfort to Lans' conscience. 

"What do you mean by a case like this, Sand? No case between man andwoman can be separated that way. Her need is my need; mine is hers!"

"Is it?"

"Thunder! Sand, of course it is. "

"I--I do not know. Things come so slowly, but I'm trying to learn forthe sake of my people. The women and children, Lans, have got a clutchon me; they must always come first. Even when we want women happy, wewant to give them happiness; give them the liberty _we_ think is goodfor them. Treadwell, I'm mighty sure there are times when we-allbetter get out and leave them alone! We only make matters worse. Youdo not know these hills as I do--I don't want to preach, heaven knows!As I talk I am only feeling my own way, not pointing yours; but I knowmy hill people, and the women and children tug right hard at my heart. When love--such love as our mountain men know--takes a woman into acabin--it generally shuts God out! I know this, and the children thatcome into life by way of our cabins are--well! I was a cabin boy, Lans! Women need God oftener than we-all do. Love puts a claim onthem that it never does on us-all. Love demands suffering of them;responsibility that man never knows. Treadwell, we men must never clogup the trail that leads woman to her God. I know I'm right there! Buttell me, are women and men different, so different in the lowlands andhighlands?"

Treadwell was bent over, his face hidden in his hands. He made noanswer. 

"That little woman--down there"--Sandy's eyes were far and away fromthe warm, rude comfort of the room which held him and that strickenfigure by the hearth--"is battling for what she believes is right. Something in her was strong enough to take her from you, your love, andthe safety you stand for in her life. She has gone back to--what hasstood for hell in her past. Do you, can you, understand her, Treadwell?"

"No!"

"Then, keep away until God, as she knows God, has had His way with her. Stand off and watch. Be ready, but let her fight her fight and come toyou, if that is the end--with clean soul!"

And now Lans Treadwell was weeping as only men and children can weepwhen they are defeated by a stronger will they cannot understand, andcannot resist. 

The great logs crackled and the wind roared in the chimney. Above, theshambling steps of Martin Morley sounded as he made his preparationsfor bed. Suddenly Sandy started up and listened. 

"There's a call of distress from The Way, " he said, getting upon hisfeet. Then he stood waiting for the next sound. Treadwell pulledhimself together and listened also. 

No call came, but presently steps were heard outside--a tap on the doorof the room which led directly to the open. 

"Come!" said Sandy, and in walked Marcia Lowe and Cynthia Walden. Theywere rain-soaked and wind-blown. Their faces shone and their eyesdanced. 

"This is the end of our holiday, " Marcia said with a laugh. Neithershe nor Cynthia paid attention to the man in the chair; he was hardlyvisible behind the high back. "Tod Greeley's shaft broke just as wewere coming into The Way from the cross cut. We called and called, butfinally we decided to find where we were--it is as black as a pocketout of doors--we were all completely lost. Cynthia and I felt our wayalong, while Greeley stayed with the horse--the beast acted like afiend--and then we saw a light: your light! No other man in The Hollowwastes oil like you--and here we are!"

At this Treadwell made himself evident. Turning sharply, he met thebig, lovely eyes of the girl beside the talkative little woman. Thefair, damp face was inframed by tendrils of light hair under a hood ofdullish red; the long, coarse, brown coat clung to the slim figure, andthe mouth of the girl was smiling. Treadwell had never seen a mouthsmile so before. 

Sandy introduced his friend and then said: "Lans, make the ladiescomfortable; I'll lend Greeley a hand. "

CHAPTER XXI

Lance Treadwell did not leave the mountains the next day. The stormpoured, and Sandy's words sunk deep in his light mind. 

"Yes, " he thought to himself virtuously, "I'll let Marian have it outwith her conscience or whatever it was that took her from me. I'llwrite and tell her I'm waiting up here!"

In the meanwhile Treadwell took a new interest in the mountains, especially in that part of them known as Trouble Neck. Marcia Lowe andher "charm" appealed to him hugely. 

"Why, it's been introduced in many other places, " he said to the littledoctor; "why can't you get your representative at Washington to get anappropriation for you?"

Marcia Lowe laughed long and merrily at this. "I really do not knowwho represents us at Washington, " she replied; "it is some distant man, like as not, with axes galore of his own to grind, with these mysticvotes of the mountains to help along. Doubtless he has a soul abovenames, and if a petticoat doctor should go to him and plead her causefor these people he would probably have me shut up as a maniac. TheForge doctor is making himself very unpleasant. He told me the otherday that if I persisted in working my charm on many more people hewould have me--investigated! Just fancy! investigating me! He used tolaugh at me; it's got past the laughing stage now. When professionalpeople step on each other's toes the atmosphere is apt to be electric. The Forge doctor has at last concluded that I am not a joke. A woman, to that sort of man, is either a joke or a menace. "

Treadwell laughed gayly. Marcia Lowe was a delight to him; besides, Cynthia Walden was always present when he visited Trouble Neck, andCynthia was bewitching. Treadwell did not talk of the girl to Sandy. He had no special reason for not doing so, but, having posed as atragic creature--a man confronting a great soul-problem--he did notlike to come down from his pedestal and stand revealed as a human beinginterested in a mountain girl. 

"Her smile, " he said to Marcia Lowe one day when Cynthia had left theroom for a moment--"how do you account for that?"

"I never account for Cynthia, " the little doctor replied. "I just takeher and thank God. She and I live our beautiful little life with mistsall about us. It's very fascinating and inspiring. She is such achild, and until there is some call to do otherwise, I am going to playwith her. We actually have dolls! Of course there are all sorts ofbones in the cupboard to pass out to the darling, but I'm waiting untilshe is hungry. "

And so Cynthia played her part and smiled and dreamed. Things justwere! There was no perspective, no contrast--the sun was alwaysflooding her hours with the one small, white cloud of Sandy's markedpassage in the "Pilgrim's Progress, " to sail across her sky now andthen. Treadwell did not surprise or shock her. He seemed a big, splendid happening from the world beyond the mountains. He was strongand pleasant and made one laugh, but he would go presently and theywould talk about him as they talked about Sheridan's raid and SmithCrothers' fire--he was not part of Lost Mountain!

Cynthia, nevertheless, walked with Lans Treadwell through the trails, and once they had followed the Branch and come upon the new factorynear The Forge. The girl told Treadwell of the fire, but sheeliminated herself utterly from the story. She understood better nowthan she once had--her part in that snowy night. Then they spoke ofSandy and his hopes. 

It was a gray, still day when they so freely discussed Sandy, and theywere strolling up from Trouble Neck to the Morley cabin; Miss Lowe andSandy were to meet them there later, coming from an opposite direction. 

"Yes, Sandy is right noble, " Cynthia said softly; "he was born, Ireckon, to do a mighty big thing. When he was little it seemed likeGod said, 'Sandy Morley, I choose you!' There never was any one likeSandy. "

Treadwell scanned the face near him, but saw only admiration and pride, detached and pure. 

"We-all just waited like we were holding our breaths till he camemarching up The Way. I can laugh now, Mr. Lans, but the morning I sawhim first I was standing right there"--she pointed to the tree by theroad where she had listened to Sandy's bird call--"and he came along, and when I knew that that big man was--my Sandy that went all raggedydown The Way years before--I expect I hated him! It seemed like he hadstolen the nice boy, eaten him up and swallowed him! But no one hatesSandy. We-all want to do something big and fine. Why, every time Ilook at him, Mr. Lans, I feel like I must show him how glad I amhe--well, he didn't swallow the old Sandy whole!"

Treadwell laughed delightedly. 

"He's mighty good to get near to when you feel--troubled, " Cynthiaadded; "and, too, you feel like you wanted to keep him from hurtinghimself!"

"How well you put it!" Treadwell's face grew serious. He recalled hishour of confession in Sandy's study and felt an honest glow ofappreciation. 

"When I was a right little girl, " Cynthia went on, "I lived up atStoneledge with Aunt Ann; she was my real aunt. I had a mighty queerlife for a little girl and I reckon I would have fared mighty bad if Ihadn't had a secret life!"

"You bad child!" Treadwell cried, shaking his finger at her; "a doublelife, eh?"

"Yes. " The sweet smile gave Lans a bad moment. "Yes. In that-er-lifeI had all the things I wanted; all the folks I liked, and it just keptme--going! Sometimes I wish, oh! how I wish, that Sandy had a nicelittle other life, free of work and worry and loneliness, where hecould--let go! Sandy does hold on so!"

"I wish I could have been in your 'other life', " Lans whispered. 

"Oh! real folks never got there!"

"Well, if it will comfort you any, " Treadwell broke in with anuncomfortable sense of being an off-mountaineer, "Sandy has--anotherlife. "

"Really?" Cynthia flushed and curiosity swayed her. She had never hadso good an opportunity to know the man Sandy; she might never haveagain. "Really? and folks, right magic folks to--to play with?"

Treadwell thought of the Markhams and grinned; then he thought ofSandy's secret relations with the girl his aunt had told him of and hegrew imaginative. "Yes. Now there is a man in Sandy's other world, agrim, rather stern man, but he has a magic wand that he lets Sandy wavenow and then--it's great fun!"

"Oh! you mean the Company?"

"Exactly. That's his pet name. And there is a nice old fairygodmother who brews wonderful mixtures for Sandy and darns his socksand makes believe, when no one is listening, that she is his mother. "

"I should love her, the honey!"

Treadwell stopped and gave a big, hearty laugh. Matilda Markham as a"honey" was about the most comical thing he had ever dreamed of. 

"And is there"--the drawling sweetness of Cynthia's voice was movingTreadwell dangerously--"is there something young and pretty and mightybright, too?"

"Yes. " Treadwell's laugh was gone. 

"A--girl--I reckon?"

"Yes, a girl--just girl enough, you know, to keep him--like--well--likeother fellows. "

"Oh!" Cynthia smiled, but her eyes grew as gray as the day; the bluefaded from them. "I hope she is a mighty nice, upperty girl. "

"I'm only playing, you know, " Lans broke in. "I am imagining a lifefor Sandy something like your old secret life. It's all fun. "

"You mean--Sandy has an--an imagination?"

"Precisely. "

But the "girl" part of the make-believe remained in Cynthia's memory. Sandy had had his pretty story down there, away from Lost Hollow! Nowhe had come back; had left it all behind him! She saw it quiteclearly. Perhaps when he was on that recent visit he had looked uponall the dear playthings as she used to look at her "Pilgrim'sProgress, " the portraits on the walls of the Interpreter's House, andher letters to her soul. Perhaps Sandy had played with the wand of thegrim old Company; had tasted the brews of the dear Fairy Godmother andhe had--bidden good-bye to the pretty girl-thing! It was very plainnow; Sandy had accepted his life of duty in the hills, he had shut thedoor between him and his playroom. 

Just then Smith Crothers crossed The Way, lifting his hat as he did so, to Cynthia. So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized, that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side--butthe pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgotthe dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drewnearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, likesomething evil, seemed to pervade everything. Instinctively Lans puthis hand out and laid it protectingly on the shoulder beside him. Thetouch shared the taint, too. 

"Oh! do not do that, " pleaded Cynthia recoiling. "I was only startledbecause--he--the man came so suddenly. "

"But I--I only wanted you to know you have--nothing to fear with mehere. "

Cynthia made an effort to smile, but it was a sad, little shadowywraith of a smile. 

The touch, the resentment, began their work from that moment. AsCynthia's shudder at Crothers' touch in the past had fanned the evilpassions of the man, so her recoil now drew Treadwell's attention tothe fact that she was not a child--but a woman; a woman who recognizedhim as man! The thought thrilled and interested him. It made himforget to write that letter to Marian Spaulding; it made him consciousthat he did not care to talk about his many visits to Trouble Neck withSandy Morley. 

And Sandy, during the days of the prolonged visit, was often absentfrom home. The factory and the Home-school claimed his care andpresence. He feared, at first, that Treadwell would have a dreary timeby himself, but there were books, and Lans repeatedly told him the restand quiet were doing him a world of good. Then--and the desireconfused Sandy--he wished Treadwell would cut his visit short. Theconfession in the study had not drawn Treadwell nearer; it had drivenhim farther away. It was as if, by keener insight, Sandy had beencruelly disillusioned; had discovered that he, not Lans, was bound tobear a new burden of responsibility. Having confided in his friend, Treadwell, apparently, was eased and comforted; while Sandy wasconstantly thinking of a certain, vague, little suffering creature who, by a word of his, was left to a hard fight with no help at hand. 

"Why in thunder!" Sandy thought as he and Martin worked with the menover at the factory; "why in thunder doesn't he go home and--stand by?"

But Lans did not go away, and more than Sandy grew restive. Martin hadtaken a deep dislike to the visitor and was only held in check bySandy's reasoning and demands. 

"Why, Dad, Lans had nothing to do with the old misunderstanding. Hehas really done us a good turn by throwing light on the past. "

"He--he laughed!" muttered Martin. "They-all laugh that-er-way. Bigthings is little to them-all; and little things is--big! ThemHertfords be--no-count! They all sound upperty and look upperty, butthey-all is--trash!"

"Come, come, Dad! Lans isn't trash. He's done me more than one goodturn. "

"I reckon he'll do you a right smart bad one some day, son. "

"Dad!"

"Yes, son. Now, why didn't the old general come an' tell us-all 'boutthe joke? Why didn't he give us-all a chance to jine in the laugh?Then this lad's father--why didn't he come back to Lost Hollow and findout 'bout--Queenie Walden, as was?"

Martin's voice sank into a whisper, but the words had a terrific effectupon Sandy. So naturally had he accepted the life of The Hollow again, so happily had he permitted his hills to draw close about him, shuttingaway the noises and interpretations of the big outer world, that theold doubt about Cynthia's poor mother, the loyal outward holding to thestory Ann Walden had told of her birth, had escaped him. Now it camethundering through Martin's whisper like a heavy blow. 

If that hushed belief were true, then--Sandy could not stand; he satdown upon a fallen tree and stared at his father. 

"If that is true, then Cynthia and Treadwell are----" The thoughtburned itself into the mind and soul of Sandy Morley. No longer couldhe permit things to drift past him; here, among his hills, vital truthswere vital truths and might make or mar the people he was bent uponhelping. 

"Cold cramp yo', son?" Martin gazed at his boy. 

"For a minute--yes, Dad. "

From that day Sandy knew that Treadwell must go away. Just how tobring it about he did not know, for his shadowy doubt could not bevoiced; there was not the least reason why it should be--but Cynthiamust be kept from the intangible something that could never touch herbut to bring dishonour. And after Lans departed, Sandy thought, hewould try to know more of the hideous uncertainty; seek to find outwhat ground there was for the doubt. In rebuilding Stoneledge, he mustdo more--he must try to take the blight from the old name. "Butsuppose"--and at that Sandy raised his head--"more glory in the end andmore need to win Cynthia to him!"

While Sandy was struggling to work his way out of the snare, strugglingto discover some social plank down which Treadwell could be courteouslyslid from Lost Mountain to Boston without damage to his dignity or theMorley sense of hospitality, Smith Crothers got his inspiration. 

Filled with hate and envy, appreciating the fact that Sandy's businessenterprises were menaces to his future prosperity, the man silently andmorosely plotted and planned some kind, any kind of revenge. Cynthia, he dared not approach personally; even his evil thoughts dared not restupon her directly. He had nothing with which to lure her; not even adecent approach could be made. The girl was always on guard; he couldmake no apology; he could hope from no self-abasement to win her faith. To harm her brutishly would be to secure his own death, for well heknew that the subtle force that was coming into life in The Hollow wasmaking the men remember they were men and the women to realize it also. Then, too, the factory back of The Hollow would be running in a year'stime. It would put on the market a different line of merchandise thanhis, but it would draw its labour from the same sources from which hedrew. 

"That damned yellow cur, " Crothers thought, "will put up prices; shutdown on the brats, and backed by the money of a fool who thinks to geta big name this-er-way, will get me by the throat if I don't get himfirst. "

Vaguely, stupidly, Crothers desired to get Sandy away from The Hollow. If only he could cause him to lose interest, give up the job and turnthe Company up North sick of the venture, all might be well. Crothershad even fancied the good effect of a plague in The Hollow that wouldwipe out the labouring class; of course, that would cripple him, buthe'd have the ground to himself and he could make up for that. However, at the plague suggestion Marcia Lowe rose grimly with warninggesture. The little doctor was undermining several things. She wasteaching the women to live decently, cook decently, and take a humaninterest in their children. Her charm, too, was having effect; morethan Martin Morley had tested its potency and taken to holier ways. The Forge doctor often told Crothers that the She-Saw-Bones ought to bebehind bars, but even in Lost Hollow you couldn't put a person behindbars for cleaning souls and homes. 

And then, at that juncture, Crothers came upon Treadwell and Cynthia. He saw the girl's shudder and her look at her companion, and heunderstood the shudder but misunderstood the look! Lansing Treadwellhad not cared to cover his true identity; rather boastfully he hadproclaimed himself a Hertford and meant, some day, to reclaim hisfamily lands and bring back the glory of the past. But Lost Hollow hadits private opinion of the Hertfords, and when the County Club had beenpermitted to share the joke about that old story which had damned theMorleys, the club refused to laugh. Oddly enough they took sides withMartin Morley, and in their late understanding of facts made flatteringovertures to Martin that embarrassed him deeply. 

"Morley, " Tod Greeley urged, "you-cum down to the club and set inTownley's armchair. Andrew Townley ain't ever going to sit anywhereagain, I reckon; he's flat on his back for keeps now. His chair ismighty empty-looking and there ain't a man round the store but wouldwelcome you to that seat of honour. "

With no idea of resentment Martin replied: "You're mighty kind, Greeley, and time was when I'd like to have jined you-all, but nowSandy and me is right companionable and--him not being a smokin' man, I'd be mighty lonesome in the circle, and Sandy would miss me to home. "

"And serves us-all right, too, " Greeley said to the club. "Us-allpitting a Hertford agin a Morley!"

So the situation was ripe for Crothers to use Cynthia and the doubtfulHertford against Morley, and, incidentally, the Company against Morley. 

"Sandy Morley would like to get the girl, " Crothers reasonedprimitively; "and if this-er-Treadwell or Hertford can smirch her--itwill finish Sandy; take his appetite for The Hollow away and--clean upthe whole business--getting me even for past hurts, too--damn her!"

Like many another blindly passionate man, Crothers hit out in the darkwith what weapons he had and landed a blow where he least expected, therecoil of which stunned and downed him. 

CHAPTER XXII

Crothers was a man who approached his ends by the use of his betterqualities. The man whom the children of the factory shrank before intrembling fear, the man whom the men fawned before, and the womenloathed and hated in dumb acquiescence, was not the man who years agocrept around the desk in his office to implore a kiss from "littleMiss. " Crothers could smile and speak courteously; his hard eyes couldsoften and attract, and there was no doubt as to his business capacityand positive genius in bargaining. 

With a more or less clear idea as to the outcome of his desires, Crothers was perfectly explicit as to his desires. He wanted to getSandy Morley away, permanently away, from Lost Hollow. Could heachieve this, his business might prosper as in old days, his command ofthe community gain power and his future be secure. If he could bringthis desired consummation to pass, by harming Sandy and, incidentally, Cynthia Walden and Marcia Lowe, so much the better. They weredisturbing elements in the place and nothing was secure, not even thesuppression of the women and the degeneracy of the men. 

"In the family and the town, " Crothers had said once to Tod Greeley, "there must always be a head; a final voice, or there will be hell. "

"Who do you want to boss your family and town?" Greeley had innocentlyasked. Crothers had not committed himself; he believed actions shouldspeak louder than words!

Seeking about for a beginning of his campaign to turn Sandy Morley fromhis course, Crothers landed upon Lans Treadwell. 

Treadwell could not always be at Trouble Neck while Sandy and Martinwere at the factory-building back in the woods; reading palled uponLans, too, and the bad cooking for his private meals began to attracthis attention. That he did not resent anything in his friend's homeand make his farewell bow was characteristic of Lansing Treadwell. Hewas thoroughly good-natured, inordinately selfish, and was consumed bydeep-rooted conviction that Sandy Morley owed him a great deal and thathe was conferring a mighty honour upon the young man by accepting hishospitality. No doubt arose as to his right in sharing Sandy's home, but as time went on he did, as all weak and vacillating natures do, resent young Morley's strength of character, simplicity and capacityfor winning to himself that which Lans felt belonged to him by inherentjustice. It had been one thing to know that his Uncle Levi Markham hadtaken another young man and set him on his feet, but quite another torealize that his uncle had adopted a poor white from the native hillsof the Hertfords and was providing him with wings. A new element hadentered into Lans. 

"It's like Uncle Levi, " he bitterly thought, with his Aunt Olive'sinstructions well in mind, "to so degrade me, my father, and ourfamily. If he could put every upstart on a throne who had hewed hisway to the throne, he would be supremely happy. "

In these frames of mind Crothers and Treadwell met and exchanged views. If Morley could put a factory up and hope for success, Lans wanted tosee the workings of a similar business already on the ground. So, during listless hours, the young man frequented Crothers'neighbourhood, ate at Crothers' boarding-house, and drank with him atThe Forge hotel. Not looking for any shortcomings, Lans did notobserve them. He found Crothers an agreeable man with a desire touplift The Hollow by practical, legitimate methods, not fool-flights offancy. Then, too, Crothers had a fine sense of the fitness of things. He deplored the fact that a man of Sandy Morley's antecedents should, by the vulgar power of money, gain control over the people. 

"I tell you, sir, " Crothers exclaimed, "the South has got to bereclaimed through blood; not mongrel blood backed by dirty money!"

This sounded very fine to Lans Treadwell. 

"Now, I was a thinking this-er-way lately: 'Spose young Hertford cameand took command 'stead of young Morley? 'Spose the old place of theHertfords was rebuilt and the family established here again--what wouldhappen, sir? I put it to you right plain and friendly. "

Lans was thrilled. He rose to any vision called up by another; as forhimself he was no vision-builder. His face flushed and his eyesflashed. 

"I have never thought of it that way, " he said; "as you put it, itseems almost an imperative duty that the best Southern blood shouldreturn to the hills and reconstruct where and in the manner it aloneunderstands. "

"Exactly. Now I reckon you don't know, sir, but there are mighty bigback taxes unpaid on the Walden place and--and your forefathers' land, sir. I'm thinking of buying both places in simply from a sense ofpublic spirit. I ain't going to let those smiling acres go into alienhands if I know myself--not if I ruin myself in the deal. "

"Few men would show such spirit as that, Mr. Crothers!"

Lans was deeply impressed. 

"Well, sir, a man as has the right stuff in him gets sentimental aboutsomething. My weakness is my--South! I came from mighty good stock, sir. I was in the university when the war broke out; I left and did myshare of fighting and then came back to--well!" Crothers' eyes grewmisty. His feelings almost overcame him and Lans Treadwell was equallymoved. 

"Since then it has been an upward climb. I gave up love, home, andmarriage. I've become a coarse man in the fight, but my heart is trueto the ideals and principles of the South. I have dreams, too, of theday when the best blood--blood such as yours, sir, recognizes the needof the hills and comes back with its tradition and forceto--to--reclaim us-all socially, religiously, and--and--morally. Itwill mean sacrifice, sir. The North, with its luxury and ease, will behard to leave, but life is sacrifice to men, sir, and the day will dawnwhen the Hertfords will come to The Hollow with determination tocontrol affairs. I'm going to hold their place ready, sir, for thatday!" This sounded almost too fine to be true, and even Lans demandeddetails. 

Then it was that Crothers laid his foundations. He would buy theHertford plantation; the Walden, also, if he could. He suspected thatback taxes could not be met by the legitimate owners--if they could bedisentangled from the mists that surrounded their possessions--he meantto get them into his own power. Then it further appeared that shouldLans Treadwell desire to return to the hills of his fathers, the waywould be made easy, and with Crothers to back the efforts of the "blueblood" a very respectable opposition would evolve to check the growingstrength of such men as Sandy Morley. 

"Morley's all right as far as he goes, " Crothers interjected; "I ain'tgot nothing to say against Morley as Morley, but what I do say is--doesthe South want to be led out of darkness by a poor white when its ownblue blood only needs a chance to flow through?"

Lans looked serious. He felt disloyal to Sandy; old associationstugged at his heart; but all at once the story of Sandy's relationswith a girl in Boston, the story coloured and underlined by OliveTreadwell, rose and confronted him. If Sandy could deceive andhoodwink Levi Markham, what could others expect? Personally, Lans hadno desire to stone Sandy, but a fine glow was filling his heart. Ifthe way could be opened for him to help his people, could he notachieve as much as Sandy: defeat his uncle's revenge--it seemed onlythat to Lans, then--and, perhaps, when Sandy had come to terms, workwith him for the good of Lost Hollow?

It was splendid! Purpose and strength came to Treadwell. He was readyfor sacrifice; ready to forego the ease and joy of his city life; readyto renounce his claims upon a certain little woman fighting her battleapart from him! He would show Morley that he _could_ be pure andresourceful, he could put his longings aside for the greater good!

Lans must always have his mental, spiritual, and physical food servedon dainty dishes! While he stood by Crothers he saw, in fancy, a noblehome arise above the trees on the old Hertford place. He saw his AuntOlive--no! it was not his Aunt Olive that he saw; it was--Treadwell'sbreath came fast--it was Cynthia Walden who stood at the door of theuprisen house of the Hertfords and smiled her radiant smile of welcometo him!

Lansing Treadwell was always a victim of suggestion and flashes ofpassion. The polished brutality of his father and the mysticgentleness of his mother had been blended in him by a droll Fate and, later, confused and corrupted by his Aunt Olive's ignorant training. 

From that day Lansing Treadwell fell into the hands of Smith Crothers, and the plotting evolved so naturally, so apparently wisely, that noshock or sense of injustice aroused all that was good in the last ofthe Hertfords. Crothers gradually assumed the guise of publicbenefactor, a man who, resenting the obvious stupidity of men like LeviMarkham, for no ulterior motive other than human rights, undertook theplacing of Lansing Hertford upon the throne of his ancestors!

Secrecy was absolutely necessary. Conditions might arise to defeatCrothers' philanthropic schemes, but when all was concluded Morley mustbe taken into their confidence and made to understand that open andfair competition was both right and democratic. 

And while all this was going on Sandy toiled at the buildings all day, reported progress to Levi every evening, tried to do his duty byTreadwell, while he sought for some reason to get him away before anyharm was done. 

It was difficult to account for what happened to Cynthia Walden at thatcritical time. It all happened so quickly, so breathlessly. The childin the girl was flattered, amused and uplifted by Lans Treadwell. Hewas so gay, so captivating. He taught her to play on Marcia Lowe'smandolin, and when he discovered how splendidly and sweetly she couldsing the plaintive songs of her hills and the melodies of the oldplantation days, he was enraptured and gave such praise as turnedCynthia's head and filled Marcia Lowe with delight. 

"You little genius!" Lans exclaimed one day; "try to dance, too. Youlook like a spirit of the hills. "

Then Cynthia danced and danced and forgot Sandy away among hisbuildings; forgot his grim determination and serious manner. It wassong and dance for Cynthia, and the little doctor looking on, charmedby the turn their dull life had taken, saw no danger. To her Cynthiawas a child still, and she was grateful that she should have this bitof brightness and joy in her narrow, drab-coloured life. 

The arrested elements in Cynthia grew apace and with abnormal force. Through Lans Treadwell she realized all the froth and sunshine girlhoodcraves--she forgot Sandy because at that moment he held no part in thegay drama that was set to music and song. And then, quite naturally, too, the woman in the girl pleaded for recognition. Here was a man whoappreciated her; would accept her as she was, although he asked noquestions of her, regarding her poor little past. He talked splendidlyof the big vital things of life which Cynthia thrilled at, but couldnot express in word or thought. Oh! it was most sure that LansTreadwell would never care what had brought her into being--it was thewoman! Sandy might do a big thing from duty; Lans would do big thingsbecause with him duty was but love of--humanity! Cynthia did not knowmuch about humanity and Lans never said he loved her--but it came uponthe girl all at once one day that she--she, little Cynthia Walden, wasneeded, desperately, sufferingly needed by a great-souled man to helpin saving Lost Hollow! How magnificent! Sandy meant to save TheHollow alone and single-handed--Sandy was limited, that was Lans'smodest interpretation--but Treadwell had his vision, too, and hisvision included her! It was breath-taking and alluring. 

Treadwell did not make any physical or emotional claims upon thegirl--something led him dangerously, but wisely. He taught her to callhim brother and he spoke to her as "little sister. " This wasparticularly blinding to Marcia Lowe. 

"Brother and sister in the broad human sense, " pleaded Lans, and so thenet drew close around little Cyn, and she did not struggle, because themesh was so open and free that it did not chafe the delicate nature norstunt the yet blind soul. 

At the end of the third week Crothers, in fatherly manner, suggested toLans that he was compromising Cynthia. So considerately and humanelydid the man speak of this that Lans could take no offence, particularlyas Crothers just then had brought their common interests to such a passthat to resent anything would have been fatal. A very beautiful andmany-coloured bubble was well in sight!

"You see, " Crothers explained, "them men up to Greeley's store are aright evil lot. Knowing that Cynthia Walden was a nameless waif whenold Miss Ann adopted her, they cannot believe a right smart feller likeyou has honest motives and they are getting ugly. "

Lans had heard the report of Cynthia's early childhood; the girlherself had sweetly and pathetically referred to it--and they thoughthe was that kind, eh? Well, he would show them! Having accepted thefate of the man on a desert island, Lans Treadwell meant to treat thenatives he found there, fairly and nobly. In his mind he had cuthimself adrift forever from the old life and its claims; Cynthia wasthe most attractive little savage on his isolated, safety isle--hewould claim her virtuously and bravely; he would train her; educate herto be no unworthy mate for him in his god-like sacrifice for his familyhonour. 

Never had Lans Treadwell been so dramatic nor such a fool, but he hadcaught little Cyn, and before she realized what had happened or why shehad permitted it to happen, she drove away with Treadwell over thehills one day to see some land Crothers had urged him to look at and, astorm overtaking them, they were delayed in an old cabin where theysought shelter over night and then and there Lans brought her to seethat for all their sakes they should be married before going home. 

"Married?" gasped Cynthia, as if the word were foreign; "married! me, little Cyn? Why, only _women_ marry!"

"And you are a woman, sweet!" Even then Lans did not touch her, thoughshe looked more divine with her big eyes shining and the blessed smileparting her lips than he had ever seen her. 

"I--a woman? Well, I reckon I am--but it seems mighty queer when youfirst think of it. And--the folks would say evil things of me becauseyou took care of me and didn't risk my neck on the bad roads in thedark? What could they-all say?"

For the life of him Lans could not frame the words with that lovelyface turned to his. "You must trust me, Cynthia. I will protect youand you must protect me. "

"I--protect you? You are right funny. What could they-all do to you?"

"They could horsewhip me; tar and feather me----"

"Oh! no!" And now the light faded from the girl's face. Once at TheForge a man was treated so--yes! there was something about a woman, too!

The storm had raged all night. Lans made a fire and laughed and jokedthe dark lonely hours through. After midnight Cynthia fell asleep fromsheer exhaustion and Lans placed his overcoat under her head while hesmoked by the fire and grew--as imagination fed upon itself--into abeing so immaculate and saint-like that the morning found him preparedfor the final and dramatic climax. He awoke Cynthia, touched her as ifshe was a spirit, and took her to the little town known as Sudley's Gapand there--married her!

Cynthia was excited and worn from her night's experience, but theceremony and Lans's manner made it all seem like a new play. They werealways playing together, he and she. Big brother and little sisterlived in the moment and had no care for the past or future. They hadbreakfast together, after the visit to the missionary, and it wasafternoon before they started for home. At last Cynthia grew veryquiet--the play had tired her; she was frightened and unhappy. Howcould what had happened secure Lans from the anger of The Hollow folks, if staying away were wrong? It was all very foolish. They could havegone to Sandy and explained. Already Sandy stood in the girl's life assafety and strength. 

Just then Lans turned and looked at her. To him it was beyondcomprehension that a girl of nineteen could be what Cynthia was. Ignorant she might be, surely was, but she was vital and human; she hadwitnessed life and its meaning in The Hollow--she was primitive andchildish--but she understood!

Lans felt himself, by that time, to be about the highest-minded man anyone could hope to find. He had practised great self-repression; he hadaccepted his future life suddenly, but with all its significantresponsibilities. When he reached The Hollow there would be tumult, nodoubt, but every man and woman there would count on the hot, impulsiveSouthern blood and, after the first shock, would glory in a Hertfordwho could carry things with such a high hand and, withal, a clean hand!

Laying the reins down over the dash-board, Lans turned to Cynthia, hispassion gaining power over him as the sense of possession lashed itsharply. The pretty big-eyed girl was his! He had secured her by thesacredest ties, but for that very reason he need withhold himself nolonger. 

"Wife!" he whispered. "Wife, come; sweet, come!"

This was no play. The call awakened no response, but fear laid itsguarding hand upon the girl as it had on that terrible night when SmithCrothers asked of her what Treadwell was now seeking in a differentway, but in the same language. 

"No!" Cynthia shuddered, shrinking from him. "No!"

The denial had awakened evil in Crothers; it aroused the best inTreadwell. For a moment he looked at the wild, fear-filled eyes andthen a mighty pity surged over him. 

"I--I would not hurt you for all the world, little Cyn, " he said, taking up the reins. "I've done the best I could for you, dear; whenyou can you will come to me--won't you? In the meantime it's 'brotherand little sister!'"

Come to him! Thus Sandy had spoken, too! The memory hurt. 

The strain of the Markham blood rushed hotly, at the instant, in Lans'sveins. It gave him courage and strength to forget--the Hertfords. 

He took Cynthia to Trouble Neck and manfully told Marcia Lowe what hadoccurred. The little doctor, worn by anxiety, was almost prostrated. 

"No one knows but what Cynthia was here all last night, " she said. "I've lied to Tod Greeley. I told him you had not taken Cynthia; thatshe was ill with headache. "

"Now!" Cynthia laughed lightly; "you see we need not have done thatsilly thing at Sudley's Gap. "

Marcia Lowe began to cry softly. 

"Oh! dear, " she faltered, "but Smith Crothers knows and Sandy Morley, too. Oh! I have been so blind, so foolish, and you have been such madchildren. "

"I am going to Sandy at once, " Lans explained. The plain common-senseatmosphere of the cabin and the little doctor's evident suffering werecalming Treadwell's hot Southern blood and giving a touch of sternprosaic grimness to the business. 

Cynthia, once she was safe with Marcia Lowe, was so unflatteringlyhappy that Lans Treadwell might well be pardoned for thinking herlacking in ordinary mentality, and this thought was like a dash of icewater on his growing chilliness. He became awkward and nervous. Hefelt like a man who had run headlong to a goal only to find that it wasthe wrong one, with no strength or power to retrace his steps he owedto defeat and failure, and in that mood he sought Sandy. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Marcia Lowe was mistaken. Sandy did not know. He knew that Treadwellhad not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was nowmanager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had goneto look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm hadnaturally detained him. 

The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised andamused Sandy. Full well he realized Crothers' motive, and he couldafford to laugh at that, but he felt annoyed and hurt at Lans's weakfalling into the trap. The disloyalty to himself did not affect Sandy, he was far too sensible and simple a man to care deeply for that, andit somehow made it easier for him to reconcile his conscience to thegrowing distrust and contempt he had for Treadwell, but he disliked theidea of Crothers using his friend to gain his mean ends. 

"Lans is not one to tie up to, " he said to himself, and then smiled atthe quaint expression which he had learned from Levi. "And to-morrow Iwill tell him that I must make ready for the Markhams. "

The day after Cynthia's marriage Sandy had gone early to the buildings. He and Martin had worked hard; settled a difficulty among the men, which they both felt confident Crothers had instigated, and, uponreaching home late in the afternoon Sandy was told that Old AndrewTownley was ill and wanted him. Liza Hope had sent word. 

"I reckon you can wait to eat, " Sally Taber had suggested; "ole Andyhas been dyin' with consumption ever since dat time when he went to TheForge an' got baptized in his wife's night shift--him not being able toget a robe! Andy took a mighty stiff chill that-er-day an' it war likea finger pintin' the way to his grave. Andy war thirty when he waddledinto de Branch in dem swaddling clothes, an' he's over ninety now. Iexpect he can hol' on till you've tended to yo' stummick. "

But Sandy had not waited. He went to Andrew and found the old manwandering on to the end of his journey in a very happy frame of mind. He was, to himself, no longer the weak creature dying in his poorcabin. Lying on the comfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilinglygazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer haddesigned, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helpinganother up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting bythe bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm youngones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind. 

"Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder!See that-er-light?"

"Yes, old friend, I see the light. "

Sandy bent low and whispered gently. 

"That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! Hewar a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Holdfast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's beenright heavy goin'--but----"

The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under theshoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position. 

"Do you see the--light, old friend?"

"I--see--the star!"

"Yes. The star and the light, Andy?"

"Yes--that's--home!"

Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life sogently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowingthat the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by TheAppointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed andreverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed thethin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next dutywith a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted byhis kind words. 

Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did notmention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having hisson to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandydisliked to shadow the joy. 

"Suppose we read a bit, " he suggested when the two were seated in thestudy. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"

"Well, son, it do seem triflin' to set your mind to anything but HolyWrit when you're idle, but to-day I found an ole paper up to the workswith a mighty stirrin' picture on it; a real techersome picture of aman danglin' from a high cliff by his two hands, and nothin' 'twixt himan' certain death, I reckon, but the writingman's understandin' of thescene. Yo' know, Sandy, I ain't had my specs fitted yet an' so Icouldn't fin' out about the picture an' it's been right upsettin' to meall day. "

Sandy took the crumpled paper Martin produced from an inside pocket andbegan to read the hair-raising tale. Toward the end he discovered itwas a serial which left the hero, at the most breathless point, stillhanging. Thereupon Sandy evolved from his own imagination a fittingand lurid ending that appeased Martin's sense of crude justice and leftnothing to his yearning soul unanswered. 

"I call that-er-tale a mighty good one, " Martin remarked when, handsupon knees, eyes staring, and chin hanging, he heard the grand finale. "Taint allas as the ungodly gets fetched up with so cutely. It's rightcomfortin' to think o' that low-down trash a-festerin' in the bottom o'the gulch. "

Then Martin, the gentlest of creatures, went pattering up to bed in hisstocking feet, muttering cheerfully to himself as he mounted the darkstairs, candle in outstretched hand:

"A festerin' eternally at the bottom!"

After his father departed Sandy sat by his fire alone and waited. SoLans found him, and gloomily took a chair across the hearth. 

"Have you had supper, Lans?" Sandy asked after greeting him cordially. 

"Yes. The storm kept me last night. I got back--not long ago. I hada bite while I waited for the horse to be seen to. The poor beast waspretty well worn out. "

There did not seem to be anything more to say on that subject, so Sandyremarked:

"Smoke if you care to, Lans; don't mind me. "

But Lans did not care to smoke and suddenly he jumped up, plunged hishands in his pockets and faced Sandy with crimson cheeks and wide eyes. 

"Sand, " he blurted out, "I'm in a devil of a hole; I've pulled aboutall Lost Hollow in with me. I'm a fool and worse, but you know how Iam. Any big passion that seizes me--holds me! I'm not responsiblewhile the clutch is on me. I ought to be taken out and shot. I----"

But Sandy's blank stare called a halt. 

"I--I wouldn't take it that way, Treadwell, " he said, thinking thatsome obvious villainy of Crothers' had opened Lans's eyes to facts; "Imay be able to get you out of the hole. "

Then, ludicrously, the story he had just read to his father came intohis mind. Lans seemed to be the creature at the bottom of the gulch, and it was up to him, Sandy, to rescue the knave in spite of Martin'ssatisfaction in leaving him there to fester. Sandy smiled. 

"Good God, Morley, what are you laughing at?" Lans cried; "this is nolaughing matter. "

"I beg your pardon, Lans. An idiotic thing occurred to me and you aresuch a tragic cuss that I never can think things are as bad with you asyou imagine. "

"Sand, this is a--hell of a thing! I don't know what you will say. Fellows like you with their hands always on their tillers, fellows withcool heads and calm passions never can understand us who fly off atevery spark that's set to us. All I can promise you is this--help menow and, by God! I'll let your hand rest on my tiller till I get intosmooth waters again and--I've learned my lesson! What I've got to tellyou sounds like a yarn, Sand. All the time I was coming up The Way Ikept repeating 'it's not true!' but good Lord--it is! Morley, I'mmarried. I was married early this morning!"

The little woman struggling with her problem up North came to Sandy'smind. She had not been able to keep up the fight; she had followedLans and--but no! If there had been a wedding then the husband musthave died! Sandy looked puzzled. 

"If it was the best, the only way, old man, " he said, "I don't see whyyou should take it this fashion. You--loved her; you cannot havechanged in so short a time. "

And now it was Lans's turn to stare blankly. With his temperament, time and place had no part. He was either travelling through space ata thundering speed or stagnating in a vacuum. He had almost forgottenMarian Spaulding and his present affair took on new and more potentmeanings. 

"I--I married Cynthia Walden!" he gasped. "I married her--thismorning. We were out alone all last night. The--storm--you--know!She didn't understand--I tried to--to shield her--she doesn'tunderstand--now. Good God! Morley, stop staring! Say something, forheaven's sake!"

But Sandy could not speak, and his brain whirled so dizzily that hedared not shut his eyes for fear of falling. Like a man facing deathwith only a moment in which to speak volumes, he groped among thestaggering mass of facts that were hurtling around him, for one, oneonly, that would save the hour. He remembered vividly the old story ofCynthia's mother which Ann Walden had proclaimed, but he remembered, also, the hideous belief that lay low in Lost Hollow. Dead and buriedwas the doubt, but now it rose grim and commanding. Sandy tried toform the words: "She is your sister!" But the words would not comethrough the stiff, parted lips. Honesty held them in check; they mustnot become a living thought unless absolute proof were there tosubstantiate them. 

The two men confronted each other helplessly, silently, and then LansTreadwell, overcome by sudden remorse, and a kind of fear, strove topropitiate the sternness that found no expression in words. 

"I've been devilishly wrong, Sand, and returned your hospitality andfriendship with bad grace, old fellow, but I drifted into it and whenit was too late--I did what seemed the only decent thing. I know Icouldn't have explained, and she turned my senses by her sweetness. She's like a baby, Morley, and I mean to--to do the right by her, asGod hears me!"

Treadwell used the name of God so frequently and ardently that itsickened Sandy. 

"Yes, " he groaned, "you will do right by her or----" the dark eyesflashed dangerously; "and you'll do right by her--in my way!"

This was unfortunate and Sandy saw his mistake. Lans Treadwell'sshoulders straightened and his jaw set in ugly lines. 

"If it's going to be man to man, Sand, " he muttered, "I reckon I've gotthe whip hand. She's my wife, you know, and the laws of this nicelittle state are pretty explicit along certain lines. When all's saidand done--what are you, as a man, mind you, going to do about it?"

Again the staggering doubt was like a weapon for Sandy's use, but hehesitated still. 

"I--I wonder if you know what you have done?" he groaned again. 

"When you talk like that, Sand, " Lans whispered, his face softening, "Idon't! And I implore you to help me. "

"You don't know our South, our Hollow, " Sandy went on, with a pitifultone in his unsteady voice. "It takes us so long to--wake up! It'ssomething in the air, the sun, the winters--the life. Cynthia has notroused--she is only dreaming in her sleep. She's a child, a littlegirl, and you have dragged her into----"

"Hold on, Sand!" Lans warned once more. 

"I have been waiting"--Sandy did not seem to heed the caution--"I'vebeen waiting and watching for the hour when she would realize that shewas a woman. I've loved her all my life, worshipped her, but I wouldnot have startled her before her time to have saved my soul from death!Had she realized, Treadwell--had things been open and fair, I wouldhave taken my chance--but--you!"

Again the blaze darted to Treadwell's eyes. 

"And what do you insinuate?" he asked--but he got no farther. Therewas the sound of quick, approaching steps outside and a moment later asharp knock on the door; Sandy strode forward and opened it, thenclosed it upon Marcia Lowe and Cynthia. 

Quickened by spiritual insight Sandy saw that the girl was awake to thereality of things. Shock had shattered her childishness forever, butshe was not afraid. Uncertainty and ignorance were there, but no senseof danger in the clear, wonderful eyes. 

"Oh! Sandy, " she panted, going close to him and holding her hands out, "Sandy, you know?"

"Yes. "

"I wanted to be here with you-all after she"--the sweet eyes turned toMarcia Lowe--"told me. I--I thought maybe he"--she glanced towardTreadwell--"might not tell you, till morning. Poor dear!"

This last was to Sandy, for the look in his eyes wrung the tender heartwith divine pity. 

"Sit down, " Sandy urged, placing chairs near the hearth and bending tolay on more wood, "there is much to say. "

Then it was that the little doctor took command. She did not sit downas the others had; she stood by the table with some loose papers in herhand. 

"I feel as if it were all my fault, " she began. "Things lie so stillhere; we seem so shut in. Cynthia has been like a child to me--Ihaven't thought ahead and I just played with her and worked out--mypuzzle piece by piece. It was only a week ago that I felt sure; Imeant to tell Cynthia slowly and little by little--and then thishappened!"

Marcia Lowe's face was fixed and white. No one spoke. Then she wenton again. 

"I have always believed Cynthia's father was--my uncle, Theodore Starr!I came to Lost Hollow because I believed that, but I had no absoluteproof and Ann Walden denied me support. But look at her--look atCynthia and me! Of course I am old, old, and she's a baby, but can'tyou read God's handwriting in our faces? See the colour, form--expression----"

Morley and Treadwell stared at the two faces and into their benumbedconsciousness something vital struggled to life. It brought a gleam toLans's eyes; a groan of surrender to Sandy's lips! The contrite voicewas going on and on. 

"There was no marriage certificate. There had been an unhappyengagement between my uncle and Ann Walden--he, poor, timid, gentlesoul, dared not speak at the proper moment, he dreaded giving pain, andhe married Cynthia's mother privately, and before things could be madeplain--he died up in the hills, serving men! The man that married themwent away--only a year ago he came back; recently Mr. Greeley droveover to Sudley's Gulch to make a will for this man; Cynthia and I wentwith him. The man died a few days ago. Among his papers was anotebook in which was recorded the marriage of Queenie Walden andTheodore Starr! The man was a--a magistrate, the thing waslegal--Little Cyn is--my niece!"

An empty room never seems so still as one in which living, wordless menand women are held by breathless silence. Treadwell dared not speak. He seemed a stranger; one who had no right to be there. Cynthia's eyeswere lifted to Sandy Morley's face and did not fall away. Having saidwhat she had come to say, Marcia Lowe held out her written words ofproof and waited. After a long pause Cynthia spoke and her voice waselectrical in its effect. 

"Sandy, " she said, going close to him and holding him with her cleargaze and slow, brave smile, "you know I did not mean--to do wrong?"

"Yes, little Cyn. "

"I'm right glad I'm--I'm my dear father's child. All my life he's beena happy name to me--and I'm mighty proud to be his, really. I'm goingto be brave for him and my mother! Sandy--I am not afraid--I am notafraid!" The words came slowly, drawlingly but unbrokenly. 

"My aunt, " and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head ofMarcia Lowe, "has told me many things--I understand right many things, now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me--but what'sdone, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If--if--my husbandwants me--I am ready--to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!"

Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionlessand white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hidher face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone inthe middle of the room. 

What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? Butlooking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrustdied from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stoodstraight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was atlast the final judge. 

"Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do--wantyou! you are my wife! You are not afraid?"

Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others--he and she wereall! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them. 

"I am not afraid, " she whispered. And before the light in her upraisedeyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch. 

"I, too, wish to help you--in my own way. Can you trust me?"

"Yes. "

"Will you leave the hills with me--me alone?"

For an instant the sweet smile faded, but it was for the loss of hermountains; not her doubt of her husband which drove it away. 

"Yes, " she murmured. 

Then Sandy found his way back from his place of torment and he strodeto the two in the middle of the room. He laid his hand uponTreadwell's shoulder, and all the smouldering passion in his heart rangin his words. 

"Lansing Treadwell, swear to me, that you will leave her soul to herown keeping until----"

Treadwell gave him a long, steady look. 

"I swear!" he said. 

"When--her hour comes to--understand and choose--let her be white andpure as she is now!"

"I swear it, Sandy Morley. "

"Then, " and now Sandy's eyes dimmed, "good-bye, little Cyn. You'llmiss the mountains--but there are good, true hearts--down beyond TheWay. "

At this Marcia Lowe drew near:

"Little girl--come home! She is mine until you take her from LostHollow, Lansing Treadwell. "

The hands that held Cynthia's let her free. A pause followed. Then:

"Good-night--good-night!" The pretty, pale face flushed tenderly. "Good-night. And now come, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

The sweet attempt at cheer all but crushed those who heard andunderstood. 

CHAPTER XXIV

The Markhams came to Lost Mountain early in December. The weather wasfair and mild and much of the time could be spent out of doors. Matilda, frail but with that gentle tenacity of life that marks manywomen for longevity, settled at once into the semi-rough life of thecabin with innate delicacy and aptness. The rooms Sandy had solovingly planned and furnished became _hers_ after the first day, andno truer compliment could have been paid her host than this homelikeacceptance of his thoughtfulness. To see her soft, bright knitting inthe sitting-room gave Sandy a positive thrill and when he came back, after a long day of tramping about with Levi, and found the dear, smiling woman awaiting him, he knew the first touch of the mother inhis own home that had ever been his. And sorely the poor fellow neededit just then!

Levi, too, was a saving grace in those empty hours after Cynthia'sgoing. Swelling with pride, he followed Sandy about from cabin tofactory; from factory to Home-school. In vain he struggled to suppressany outward show of the pride and delight he took in everything he saw. He sought to keep things upon a dull, business level, but exultation attimes overcame him when Sandy was well out of sight. To Martin orMatilda he permitted himself a bit of relaxation. 

"Well, " he had said to Martin after the first strangeness had worn off, "so you are the father of this boy, eh?"

"I am, sir!"

The pride that rang in Morley's voice was never veiled, and his nativedignity was touching. 

"I reckon any one might doubt it, sir, seeing him and me, but he's mineand I'm his. "

"Well, well!" Markham put his hand out frankly. "I hope you'regrateful. "

"I am mighty grateful, sir. Mornin' an' night I kneel an' thank myGod, an' day in an' out I live the poor best I can, sir, mythankfulness. "

Markham gripped the thin, hard hand appreciatively. He knew more ofMartin than Martin suspected, for Marcia Lowe had made it her firstduty, after the Markhams' arrival, to get into touch with them. NotSandy alone had been the theme of the little doctor's discourse;Martin's grim and self-sacrificing fight in her cabin was given indetail with other happenings in The Hollow. 

"Oh! they are so big and silent and patient, " Miss Lowe had explained, "they cannot for one moment comprehend their own importance in thescheme of things. I feel it a duty to shine up their virtues. "

Levi was deeply touched by all he heard, and when things puzzled him hegruffly insisted that he needed a walk to calm his nerves, and alwaysit was the little doctor who straightened the tangle. 

"Miss Interpreter, " Markham dubbed her, and through her he becameacquainted with Smith Crothers and Crothers' mark upon recentoccurrences. Of course Levi knew of Lans Treadwell's visit to thehills. Markham was not a superstitious man, but he had remarked toMatilda before they came to Lost Hollow that it "looked like the handof God. " After a séance or so at Trouble Neck, Levi changed his mind. 

"I tell you, Matilda, " he confided by her fireside one night after aparticularly satisfying day with Sandy, "we take for granted that GodAlmighty's hand is the only guiding in the final analysis, but thedevil gets in a twist now and again, and I guess he had more to do withLansing's heading up here than God did. Once old Nick got the boy herehe did his best to use him, too, but from what I can learn Lans spunkedup at the end and showed himself more of a man than we might haveexpected. He played a good deal of havoc in a few short weeks, though. "

Marcia Lowe had eliminated Sandy from poor Cynthia's romance ortragedy. She had put a purely commercial valuation upon Crothers'interference, for the look on Sandy's face the night he bade Cynthiagood-bye haunted the little doctor and would to the last day of herlife. Before it her eyes had fallen, and whenever she recalled thescene a silence fell upon her. No thought or word could express whatshe, too late, surmised, and her lips guarded the sanctity of Sandy'ssecret. 

When Levi confided Marcia Lowe's interpretations to his sister she wasvery unresponsive. She listened but made no comment other than:

"Sandy works too hard. He looks real peaked to me. It don't count toyour credit, Levi, or his either, for that matter, if he feels he's gotto pay you back in bone and muscle past a certain point. "

"Now, 'Tilda, " Levi put in, "what do you mean by that?"

"I mean----" Matilda condensed her impressions: "I think he looks realpinched and peaked. "

This put Markham on a new track, and the next day he fell upon Sandywith the one weapon which, more than any other, caused Sandy to loveand honour him. 

"See here, son, "--it was oftener "son" than "boy" now--"don't get anyfool idea in your head that you owe me more than an eight hour day'swork. "

They were going over the plans of the Home-school as Levi spoke, andSandy laughed lightly. "You are my agent, my--my promoter, son, and, as such, you hold a responsible position at--at good pay!"

"Thank you, sir. I understand that and I am anxious to carry out yourwishes. I am eager to get this thing running, not for you, sir, alone, but my people. Crothers seems hell-bound just now in frightening theminto signing contracts for themselves and their children for years tocome. Of course the contracts are not worth the paper they are writtenon, but a general belief is spreading that our works cannot be reliedupon and, in order to benefit The Hollow, Crothers is offering toprotect the people against us by securing positions for them if theywill agree to stand by him. When I think of the baby-things, sir, andthe long, deadly hours of toil that lead to no preparation forbetterment, my soul sickens. Now this, sir"--Sandy pointed to aparticularly high and open space on the blue print--"is the hospitalroom. "

"The--the what?" Levi put on his glasses. 

"The hospital room, sir, I'm going to put Miss Lowe in control; I'dlike to have another physician too, sir, and a few nurses. Right upthere"--Sandy's eyes gleamed as they followed his finger to the spaceon the blue print--"we want to tackle the real trouble of the South, sir. Why, do you know I only heard the other day that Tod Greeley wentto our representative, a year ago, and begged him to get anappropriation from Congress to start the work against the hook worm inthis district and the request was refused. " Sandy gave a hard laugh. "Well, I reckon Greeley and I know why, sir. Lost Hollow is tooignorant. Our votes can be got without the appropriation. The big, human need does not matter! Where there is more intelligence therepresentatives have to understand conditions. But it will matter byand by, sir! I know what that little doctor did for my father. I knowwhat she's done for one or two of Mason Hope's children and the girl ofTansey Moore's who was--who was like my sister Molly! I want Miss Loweand her helpers to have that high and bright place, sir, for theirworkshop. It must have sun and air, sir, and books and toys and--andmusic, too, for the fight is a hard and bitter one and the days andnights, at best, are terrible. "

Levi Markham leaned back, took off his glasses and fixed Sandy with hiskeen glance. For a few moments he could not speak; he had been carriedfar and beyond his normal depth. When he got command of himself, hesaid slowly:

"Son, it looks to me as if we would need all we can make up North tostamp out some of the evils of the South, but, God willing, we're goingto make a stab at it! See here, who is the representative for thisdistrict?"

Sandy gave the name of a man many miles away. 

"Well, I guess he can be brought to learn the language of Lost Hollow, son, if some one shows him his duty. Some good laws, too, that wouldput a quietus on this Smith Crothers' ambitions ought to be lookedafter. He shouldn't be the say-all up here. No man is good enough orsafe enough to take the bit in his own teeth--not even you, SandyMorley!"

"Law, well carried out, is the best way, sir. "

"Exactly! And now for the rest of the building, boy. What are theselittle cubby holes?"

"Bedrooms, sir. This is only an idea of my own. It's ratherextravagant and it's subject to your decision, of course. I'd like tohave each child have his own room, sir. A boy or girl grows so in aspecial little corner that is quite his own. I have a design of asmall chest of drawers that I'd like to show you later. It does nottake up much space and it combines washstand, bureau, table and--aplace for the boy or girl's things. "

"Things?" Levi was again bending over the blue print. 

"Yes, sir. Things dear to each child's heart. Stones, sticks, anything that cannot be--explained. " Sandy gave a low laugh. He washarking back to the old shed beside his father's cabin and the gayprints tacked to the worm-eaten boards. 

"The separate rooms can stand, son, and those little jimcracks ofdrawers are favourably passed on, too. And these?" Levi's thickforefinger stopped at the elevation of the first floor. 

Sandy gave a rich, satisfied laugh of content. 

"Well, sir, it is this-er-way"--The Hollow's soft running of the wordstogether delighted Levi's ear--"when the poor little creatures have hadtheir fight out on the upper floor and have got down to these smallrooms and have realized that they are human beings, then we're going tofix them--fix them, sir, right here!" Sandy's eyes flashed and his jawset in the stern, grim fashion that Levi had long since grown to watchfor and admire. 

"By the time they reach the ground floor, sir, I reckon we can tacklethem and begin to make them pay for themselves. By that time they willhave something to draw on and we'll exact payment. Right here andhere"--Sandy's forefinger was going rapidly from point to point, andLevi's stubby digit was laboriously following--"are the workshops, theschool rooms, the kitchens and conservatories. Why, sir, even theidiot children can be utilized. They love flowers and animals; we mustfind their one gleam and guide their poor feet on the way. Good food, honest hours of work, systematic exercise and proper amusement--why, sir, from this ground floor we are to send men and women out into theworld who will reflect credit on Lost Hollow and redeem its name. Andyou, sir----"

The two men faced each other suddenly. Markham seemed to realize anewthe delicacy and fineness of the thin, brown face---Matilda's wordsrang in his ears, "he looks real pinched and peaked. " The homelyphrase carried more weight to Markham than any scientific terms of aspecialist. A sharp pain shot through his heart; he had the quickimpulse to shield and protect this young fellow who was being carriedafield on the wings of his enthusiasm. Protect him from what?

"See here, son, we cannot afford to go too fast with this hobby ofyours. Get the buildings up as soon as you can; carry out all thematerial plans just as you have designed, but we've got to get our feeton good firm ground before we tackle the human problems. You know I amagainst paternalism, first and last. I'm willing to give opportunity, but nothing else. "

"That is all they need, sir. Some must be shown opportunity--othersare strong enough to grip it, but it's mighty good common sense, sir, to open the eyes of the blind and strengthen the feet of the weak--it'swhat you-all did for me, sir. "

"Umph!" Markham exclaimed and then got suddenly up. "I'm going to takea stroll down The Way, " he said. "Fix things here in an hour or twoand see if you can get some kind of a rig for a drive this afternoon. I want Matilda to get the lay of the land before the winter sets in. "

And then, confused by mingled emotions, Markham bore down upon SmithCrothers in his factory, a mile or so down the mountain, and attackedthat gentleman in such a blunt and utterly unlooked-for manner thatCrothers was startled and helpless. 

The directness of the blows left Smith Crothers without defence; he wasobliged to use his own crude weapons with the ever-growing convictionthat they were worse than useless. Markham availed himself of nopropitiation--he rushed his opponent into the open at the firstonslaught, and thereafter he attacked him fore and aft mercilessly. 

"See here, Crothers, " he began, when the head of the factory hadinvited him into his private office and, with smiles and bows, hadseated his guest; "you and I had better understand each other rightnow. You know, and I know that you know, that I am The Company upNorth which you are maligning here in The Hollow. Now I'm willing tolay down my hand and show my cards. I'm going to back this boy ofMorley's by millions, if necessary, and there are millions to counton--not millions to be made. _Why_ I am doing this is my concern--allthat matters is--I'm going to do it! Maybe it is a whim; maybe it isplain tomfoolery; every man has his weak side--I have mine. Thatfactory up the hill is going to run as soon as it is finished; theHome-school is going to open its doors likewise; and both institutionsare going to pay and don't you forget it! You put one product on themarket; I another. We won't clash there--the rock we may split on isthe labour question. "

Crothers gasped feebly. 

"I reckon I understand conditions here, sir, better than"--he longed tosay "any damned Yankee, " but he controlled the impulse--"any strangerfrom the North. "

"No you don't!" Markham flashed back. "Exploitation isn't any fairerhere than where I come from. Because these people don't realize it isno excuse for men like you and me. I know all about what you set forthas explanation and excuse--it goes up North the same as it does here. Supply and demand; business is business and all the rest of it, but youand I know that it ought not go! We have no right to take it out ofthe people. "

"You've managed to take out your pile"--Crothers' smile wasvanishing, --"'cording to your own telling. Millions ain't got bymagic, these times. "

Markham fixed the ugly eyes with his calm gaze. 

"You are free to come and see how I have made my money, " he said. "Ihave a system that includes every employee in my money-getting. They, every mother's son of them, have a chance with me to better themselves. I have never worked a child in my mills nor a woman about to become amother, or for months after. I don't talk about these things--I livethem! Now I mean to make money up here--honest money; my just share, and I'm going to follow my past line of action. I find it pays. YoungMorley knows conditions here, and I'm going to pay him a big salary asinterpreter. He's a high class man. Why, good God! Crothers, Isometimes think he was called to lead his people out of bondage. "

Having permitted himself this flight Markham struck another blow thatcompleted Crothers' dismay. 

"There have got to be laws protecting these mountain folks fromthemselves. I'm not casting reflections, but you have all been passedby in the general scuffle, down yonder, and some one has got to sit upand take notice. There should be child labour laws, educational lawsand sanitary laws. There should be appropriations made for carrying ongood work in the mountains!" The light of Sandy's torch was flaringwell ahead of Markham and he was following eagerly. 

"Such men as you ought to be up and doing. It's going to be an openfight, as far as I'm concerned, and I want to tell you now that so longas there is decent and clean methods used, all may be well, but I'mgoing to see fair play, and I thought it was only friendly to come toyou and show my cards. "

"Thank you!" Crothers moistened his lips and plunged his hands in hispockets. "Is this a threat, sir?"

"No; a warning. "

"Well, sir, I mean to do business along my own lines. "

"I mean to do the same, Crothers, and I'd like to add, that in anyclash please remember you are up against me--not Sandford Morley. "

"I'm not likely to forget that, sir. "

There was a little more talk, pro and con, and then the two men partedas men can do, after a heated and vital discussion, apparently on thebest of terms. 

It was the night of that day when, before the fire in the littlesitting-room devoted to the Markhams' use, Levi sought to ease hissister's mind concerning Sandy. 

"The boy was up against it with Crothers, " he explained, "and making nooutcry. You know Sandy's way. He wouldn't confide in us about thatpoor little sister of his--he thought it wasn't in the bargain. Hemeant to fight this big bully in his own fashion without calling on me, but I've taken a hand in the game and put Crothers wise as toprinciples. I may have to get a few knocks before I am done, but Sandywon't be the buffer. I guess the boy will pick up from now on. He'snervy and stronger than he looks. "

Matilda sat in her low, broad rocker. Her dressing gown of pale violetenshrouded her tiny figure like the soft petals of a flower; her fadedeyes and gentle face were lowered, and her gaze fixed upon the burninglogs. 

"Brother, " she said tenderly and wistfully; "the boy has had a mortalhurt. This evil man has not dealt it, and neither you nor I can cureit. It has not killed his mind and spirit, but it's killed the heartof the lad. "

Levi Markham got up and stood with his back to the fire. He was goingto be enlightened--he knew that--but in man fashion he pushed theinevitable from him. 

"Whim-whams, 'Tilda! Now what do you mean in plain American? Who'sgiven the boy a blow--a hurt, or whatever you fancy?"

"It's the--the little girl, brother, that Land has run away with. "

"Good God, Matilda!"

"Levi, I do wish you would curb your language. You know how I dislikeprofanity. "

"I beg your pardon, 'Tilda. "

"While you have been sensing business conditions, brother, I've sensedsomething else. I've sort of gathered this Cynthia Walden up piece bypiece. The old woman who works here gave me a bit; that dear littlewoman doctor--the aunt of the girl--has told me some of the story; fromMartin Morley I've taken a mite. Little by little it has come to me, until I've patched the whole together and I can see real plain andclear, now, the spirit of Lost Hollow that led Sandy out and up andthen--escaped to a place he cannot reach! Oh! brother, when one islonely and old and not over strong, it is so easy to get at the heartof a thing for them one loves. "

Matilda was crying gently into her dainty little handkerchief, andMarkham stared at her, speechless and helpless. 

"There! there! 'Tilda, " was all he could think to say, but his tone wasloving beyond description. 

"She's the girl whose face haunted that picture of the dogwood flowers, brother. She's the girl he wrote to just once, you remember, that timewhen we stopped in New York on our way from here to Bretherton. Iguess she's called and called to him from these hills ever since heleft, and now----"

"Well, 'Tilda?"

"She's gone away and the call is--stilled. "

Markham sat down again before the fire and buried his head in hishands. Quietly the old brother and sister sat for a full half hour, then Levi got up. 

"Good-night, sister, " he said. 

"Good-night, brother. "

That was all. They knew that they were unable to reach the hurt thatSandy had received. 

CHAPTER XXV

But Matilda Markham could not sit down under her weight of convictionin protracted silence. The winter at last gripped The Hollow, anddoors and windows were closed against the cold and storm. Markham, Martin, and Sandy were always away together much of the day, butMatilda sat by her fire, chatted a little with Sally, revelled inMarcia Lowe's frequent calls, and managed to weave a tender story fromall she heard. She knitted her endless rainbow scarfs and gave them tothe mountain women who received them in stolid amazement and doted uponthem in secret. Once Matilda did a very daring and tremendous thing. She wrote to Olive Treadwell and asked some pointed and vital questionsabout Lansing's wife!

Having sent the letter away impulsively, the poor little lady had aweek of real torture. Daily she walked to the post-office, when no onewas watching, and caused Tod Greeley much amusement by her nervousanxiety. 

"Meaning no offence, " he confided to Marcia Lowe, "and respecting herage and gray hairs, I reckon the old miss is in love. It comes late tosome folks, " he sighed pathetically, "and it comes right hard when itstrikes past the time limit, but nothing but love takes it out of folkslike what this old miss is suffering. "

At last the answer came and Matilda read it with the door of herbedroom bolted and the washstand barricading it as well. 

Olive Treadwell wrote:

I'm mighty glad to say something about this affair to some one who canunderstand me. Imagine my feelings when, out of the blue, as one mightsay, Lans brought this girl home and said, "I'm going to leave her withyou, Aunt Olive, until I can see my way clear. I am brother to her andshe is sister to me until--the way's made plain. " That was all andthen Lans betook himself to his old quarters and began to work. He'staken a position on the _Boston Beacon_ and calls, actually _calls_, onhis wife evenings or takes her and me out to theatres and dinners. I'msupposed to be training this young woman, for what, heaven only knows!but I have my hands full. Lans was always erratic and poetic, but thisis beyond my comprehension, He has had affairs of the heart, of course, but this is different. The girl is the strangest creature I ever saw;she is uncanny. After I got her into proper clothing I saw she hadbeauty and charm of a certain kind. She takes to ways and expressionsmighty quick, and she is the sweet appealing kind that attracts evenwhile one disapproves. I confess I am utterly dumb-founded and if youcan throw any light on this matter, pray do so. The girl seems to meto be half here and half somewhere else; she isn't unhappy, and sheseems to adore Lans in a detached and pretty childish way, but why didhe marry her and why should he, having married her, regard her in thisplatonic fashion?

Of course Matilda could not answer these questions but she cried overthe letter a great deal and brooded over Sandy with all the motherhoodthat nature had not legitimately utilized. And then, one night, Sandycame to her quite simply and directly and claimed, in his greatsuffering need, what she alone had to give. 

It was the week before Christmas. The cabin was gay and festive, forMarcia Lowe, in a lavishness of good cheer, had decorated everythingshe could command beginning with the little chapel and ending with thepost-office. The County Club sat now 'neath an arbour of greens, andthe lowliest cabin had its spray of pine or holly. 

Martin and Levi were bent over a backgammon board in Sandy's study. Markham had undertaken to correct Morley's neglected education as togames; and Martin had, after the first week, so outstripped hisinstructor that Levi was put upon his mettle and every victory hewrenched now from Martin gave him a glow of pride he was not slow toexhibit. Seeing the two men engrossed, Sandy stole to MatildaMarkham's little sitting-room and there found the dear lady asleepbefore the fire, her thin white hands sunk in a mass of beautifulwools. He stood and looked at the quiet, peaceful old face; herecalled, one by one, her kindnesses to him, her growing pride and lovefor him, and presently his eyes grew misty. The frail creature beforehim became touched by the magic of his gratitude and need, the mostvital and mighty factor in his life. She, in this hour of his hiddencraving, was the only one to whom he could turn, and right well he knewthat she would stand by him. 

Suddenly Matilda Markham opened her eyes and looked directly intoSandy's. It may have been that some dream had prepared her, God mayhave spoken to her in vision; however that may be she said gently:

"Son, you need me? Come, tell me all about it. "

Quite naturally Sandy sat down at her feet and looked frankly into thedear, old face. 

"I am going to ask you to do a great thing for me, " he said; "I mustask you to do it without my explaining things to you to any extent--Iwant you to do it as a mother might for her son--trusting me if youcan. "

"Dear boy, I think I can promise to do what you ask. "

Then the thin hands found their way to the bent head, and as theytouched the thick, dark hair a thrill shot to the woman's very heart. 

"Mother!" Sandy seemed inspired to meet her soul's longing. "Mother!"

"Son, go on. I am waiting. "

"It--it is about the girl--Lansing Treadwell married. "

"Yes. "

"I must know how things are with her. Our mountain people can be solonely and homesick away from the hills. At times nothing, nothing cantake the place of the yearning. I--I can forget everything that haseven been, if I know she is right happy and content--but I must know!"

A fierceness struck through the low-spoken words. "The doubt is--iskilling me. "

"Shall I go now, son, or wait until after the holidays?"

"Could you go now--and alone?"

"I can manage Levi, son. Travelling is real easy these days. It willtake management, but I can get what I want. "

"You would understand if you saw her. "

Sandy's voice trailed off forgetful of the woman at whose knees heknelt. 

"She can smile and make right merry, but you would know and understand. She is such a pretty, sweet thing, but she has the iron of the hills inher. She must"--again Sandy's voice shook with passion, --"she musthave happiness! If--if the noise and confusion of the city havedistracted her she must come back to the mountains. Lans will agree tothis--I do not doubt him! She must not--kill herself--you will knowwhen you see her. You must come back and tell me--you will?"

"I will, son. "

Matilda yearned to show him Olive Treadwell's letter, but somethingkept her from doing it. She wanted to do what she could for Sandy inher own way, and suddenly she felt herself a giant of strength andpurpose. 

"Travel alone!" she said to Levi later when she had cowed the poor manby her determination and exactions, "of course I can travel alone. AmI an idiot, Levi, or a fool? Haven't I a good American tongue to askquestions with? I remember our mother once told us she would spank uswell if we ever got lost in a place where folks talked the samelanguage we did. You put me on the train at The Forge with a throughseat in a Pullman, telegraph to Mary Jane to meet me in New York, and Iguess I can manage. "

"But, 'Tilda, what on earth has seized you to act so uncertain in themiddle of this visit? What will they think of you and me?"

Then Matilda made her master stroke and, by virtue of hersex-privilege, completed her triumph over her brother. 

"Levi, " she said--she was standing before him, her thin hands on hisshoulders--"I ain't ever had what you might call a real fling where myemotions and sentiments were concerned. Let go of me, just this once, and trust me! I've always been sort of held back. First it was fatherand mother; then Caroline, and lastly you! I ain't never done exactlywhat I wanted to do without explaining, and now I want to be left freeeven if I die for it!"

"Well, well!" blurted Levi, but he caught the idea. "I guess women dohave a sense of the tight rein now and then; it may lie loose mostly, but it never is quite laid off. 'Tilda, you may cut and run now, forall of me. I'll see to what, you may say, are your animalcomforts--parlour car seats, tickets, and some one waiting for you intown, but you kick the heels of your inclinations good and high foronce and I bet you and me will run the rest of the race togetherbetter, forever after. Whoop it up, 'Tilda, and remember money needn'tbe a hold back. You've got a big, fat slice coming to you, old girl. "

Now that Levi had dropped the reins, the spirit of adventure possessedhim. He and Sandy saw Matilda off on her journey three days later, inhigh spirits. 

"I tell you, boy, " he confided on the way back to the cabin, "it's amighty good sign when a woman wants to jump the traces, and a good manisn't going to lick her into submission for doing it. The chances area woman wouldn't take to kicking if the traces didn't chafe. I'vemeant to be kind to Matilda, but kindness can be chafing at times. Awoman like Matilda, a little, self-sacrificing woman, is realenlightening if you pay attention. "

Matilda seemed to develop and expand during that trip North. Sheordered her meals with an abandon that electrified the waiters on thetrain, and then her sense of economy demanded that she should eat whatshe had ordered. Her tips were dazzling and erratic, but they, and herquaint personality, won for her great comfort and care. She was inbetter condition, physically, than she had been for many a day when, one golden winter afternoon, she stood in Olive Treadwell'sdrawing-room in Boston and waited for Cynthia. Mrs. Treadwell was out, but the "young lady, " the maid said, was in. 

"How very fortunate, " thought Matilda and then took her rigid standacross the room. Unconsciously she was waiting to see what LansingTreadwell had done to this girl of the hills whom he had so ruthlesslyand breath-takingly borne away. Lans was, unknowingly, before the mostawful bar of judgment he had ever stood--the bar of pure womanhood!

There was a step upon the stairs; a quick, yet faltering step, and thenCynthia entered the room and came toward Matilda Markham with deep, questioning eyes and slow smile. The impression the girl made was tolast the rest of Matilda's life. Once, years before, Matilda had seena rare and lovely butterfly caught in the meshes of a net, and, oddlyenough, the memory came to her now as she looked at the sweet, starry-eyed creature advancing. She was as surely caught in aninvisible net of some kind as the long-ago butterfly had been. MatildaMarkham noted the conventional gown of dull blue with silver trimming;the little slippers to match, and the silken stockings; her eyes restedupon the string of small silver beads wound around the slim throat;all, all were but part of the mesh that caught and held the spirit thathad ceased to struggle. 

How lovely she was, this Cynthia of Lost Hollow, in spite of the crudeconventions! The frank, waiting eyes were as gray-blue as her mountainskies; the lips, half-parted, had not forgotten to smile above the hurtand pain of her tiring days and homesick nights; the smooth braids ofshining hair bound the lifted head just as dear Madam Bubble haddesigned them on the morning when the portrait of "The Biggest of ThemAll" was hung in the Significant Room. 

"You--wanted to see--me?"

The drawl had become sacred to Matilda's ears. 

"Yes, my child. I have come from your old home just to see--you. "

A faint colour stole into the whiteness of the fair face. 

"From Lost Mountain?" Oh! if Sandy could have heard her say that wordhow it would have rested his soul! "From Lost Mountain?"

"Yes, my dear. Come and sit here beside me. "

Matilda could not stand longer. Her knees shook beneath her for, likea blinding light, the knowledge came to her that poor Lans, with allhis faults, was exonerated from any wrong to this young girl! Theinnocent old eyes and the radiant young ones had no veil between them. Sitting side by side they smiled bravely at each other and then Cynthiareached out her hands. 

"You are"--she whispered--"you are Sandy Morley's fairy godmother! Oh!I know all about you. Lans has told me. I am right glad--oh! mightyglad to see you!"

The voice shook with emotion and Matilda Markham could not answer for amoment. Never in her life had she been so moved. She longed to takethis girl to her heart and hold her there, but instead she foundherself, presently, telling the homely news of the hills to the hungrysoul whose yearning eyes never fell from her face. 

"And the little doctor is my own aunt, you know?"

"Yes, child. They told me all about it. "

"It's right good to have one's own--at last;" this was plaintivelywhispered; "and my dear, dear father. You know his story, too?"

"Yes. It lives in the hills and speaks for him even to-day. "

"They-all say I'm like my father. "

"I am sure you must be. You are like Miss Lowe, and I guess one canalways tell which parent a boy or girl is like. I guess Sandy, now, islike his mother. He doesn't favour his father. "

"Yes. I reckon Sandy must be like his mother. I had never thought ofthat before. "

Cynthia's eyes were fixed and dreamy. 

"And you, child, are you happy and content?"--the words of Sandy werethe only ones possible--"I must tell them all about you when I go back. "

"You are--going back?" the yearning was unmistakable--"I thought, maybe, you were going to stay here--I'd be mighty glad to have younear. "

"I'm coming home, to my own home a little later. I'll see you oftenthen. "

Slowly they were advancing and retreating, this woman and girl, buteach venture brought them a little nearer. Like the incoming waters ofa rising tide a slight gain was made, moment by moment. Then suddenlyand unexpectedly a rushing current bore them to the high mark. 

"You poor, homesick child! Come cry it out and have done with it!"

It was not like Matilda Markham to so assert herself; it was not likethe dear, brave Madam Bubble to succumb as she now did; but, in anotherinstant she was kneeling where Sandy had knelt a few nights before, andclinging to the dear hands which had, then, rested upon his bowed head. 

The wall of suppression that Cynthia had raised, during the past weeks, between her mountain life and this artificial one of the city, crumbledat the message from the hills. Her part in the strange drama sank toinsignificance, and in her weakness she was able to view it clearly anddispassionately with this plain little woman who had come to serve her. 

"I did not understand, " she sobbed; "I was tired--there had been thenight in the storm, you know. I did not want to make trouble and--oh!how can I tell you, but it was only when the little doctor--myaunt--explained everything that I saw myself standing alone in theconfusion with something I must say and do! I couldn't let them do mywork for me, dear lady, "--the quaint expression caused Matilda Markhamto draw in her breath sharply--"I was no longer a child and I had tobear my part. When we-all stood in Sandy's cabin and the truth came tous-all, at once, I reckon for the first time in my life, I realized Iwas a woman. I couldn't take my chance and leave Lans out. They-allwanted to save me from myself, but they forgot him and then when hesaid"--the girl gasped--"that he wanted me--I had to go! I did not gobecause any one compelled me--I just had to go! I was led like when Imarried Lans. More and more I see it now; I feel it in the night. Itdid not _happen_, dear lady; it all leads up to something God wants meto do; something no one can do as well as I. Sandy had his call--youknow how he responded? Well, I have my leading. We-all, of the hills, get near God, dear lady. We are lonelier; we need Him more and Hespeaks more plainly to us, I reckon. "

The superstition and mysticism of Lost Hollow held every thought andfancy of this girl, but Matilda Markham realized that they gave herstrength and purpose as they had poor Sandy before her. 

"Oh! my dear, my dear!" was all she could say, but she freed one of hercool hands from Cynthia's hot one, and laid it like a benediction onthe girlish head. 

"I am waiting, dear lady, for the thing I am to do, and Lans is mightykind. He is my big brother and I am his little sister--until I canread my way plain. You did not know he was so good?"

"I thank God that he is!" breathed Matilda Markham devoutly. 

"I wish I could make--Mrs. Treadwell understand. She--laughs!"

Matilda felt her ire rise. The laugh of Olive Treadwell could bebrutal and cruel in its sweetest ripple!

"It seems right long and wearying waiting, waiting for the meaning. "

Cynthia's slow words flowed on. She had ceased crying and was lookingup now with brave, clear eyes, "and part of me is there--in LostHollow. That part of me comes to comfort _this_ part of me--can youunderstand, dear lady?"

Matilda nodded. She did, indeed, understand. 

"And that part of me makes this part of me--stay here! After thatmighty hurry and trouble when Lans and I came away alone I was rightfrightened. There was just once--while we stayed a few hours in NewYork that I--that something happened. I was in a room, Lans had goneout to order luncheon and I felt I had to run away! I stood with myback against the wall when he came in and I reckon I was wild, for hecame close and took my hands this-er-way----" Cynthia was acting thevivid scene standing now before Matilda Markham and holding herhands--"and he said slow and firm, 'lil' girl, I'm not going to hurtyou. You and Sandy Morley are not going to see me fail!' And thenthat part of me that lives always in Lost Hollow went back mighty safeand strong. I haven't been afraid, dear lady, since. "

Then it was that Miss Markham arose and realized her strength to itsfull extent. 

"Child, " she said, "I've changed my mind about going back to LostHollow to-morrow. I'm going to Bretherton and that is only a half hourby rail from here. I want you to come to me, there. I must see youagain. I'll explain to Mrs. Treadwell and Lans. I declare I haven'tfelt so like my old self for years and years. "

"Oh! dear lady!" Cynthia's shining eyes were large and happy; "dearlady! you mean you will let me see you in your own home?"

"I mean--just that. "

"Oh! Oh! why sometimes I think that soon God will say, 'lil' girl, your task is done. Run back home now! Run back to your hills. ' MaybeI can go back with you!"

A gayety rang in the sweet voice that almost reduced Matilda to tears. The abandon and inconsequence were so oddly mingled with the strangedetermined strength that the elderly woman was confused and irrational. 

The wayward, wild creature of the hills, ensnared in the net woven byLans's blind passion and irresponsibility, seemed so incapable offulfilling any role that demanded the recognition of her as a wife inthis superficial environment that Matilda felt immoral andsacrilegious. She wanted to say, instead of leaving it to a higherpower, "Your task is done, lil' girl! Run back to your hills!" butinstead she said brokenly:

"You will come to Bretherton?"

"Indeed, yes; dear lady!"

"Perhaps you will go out with me to-morrow if I stay over night intown?"

"If--oh! if they will let me. But you see, there are a mighty lot ofthings to do--I'm learning!"

"Good-bye then, dear child. "

And that night, on the paper of a quiet little hotel, Matilda wrote abrief note to Lost Hollow. She addressed it to Levi. 

I'm going to stay on a spell. I never felt better in my life. It wasthe thinking that life didn't need me any more, that was running medown. It's awful foolish for old folks to let go of things. By theway, I called at Olive Treadwell's to-day and saw Lans's wife. She'sreal fascinating and real good looking. Brother, I want you toreconsider about leaving Lans out of your will. He's coming out realstrong and blood is blood! Tell Sandy this girl, Cynthia, sends kindregards and is enjoying her stay in Boston better than she expected. 

This letter had a marvellous effect upon Levi and Sandy. 

"What do you think of that?" Levi exclaimed shaking with laughter. "Ifthat ain't spunk and real grit. "

Sandy was looking out of the study window and did not reply. 

"That's the old New England spirit. Never say die and all the rest!"Levi chuckled. 

"Thank God for it!" was all Sandy said in return. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The work God had sent Cynthia to do came to hand very shortly after MissMarkham's return to Bretherton. Cynthia had spent one blessed day at thequiet old farm, then Mrs. Treadwell and she went down together and stayedover one night, and once Lans ran down and had an hour's talk with hisAunt 'Tilda before she slipped back to Lost Hollow and Cynthia's taskcame for her doing. 

Lans's visit had sent Matilda to her knees beside the four-post bedsteadin the room that had once been Caroline Markham's. 

"Caroline, " the trembling old lips had breathed, "it was _your_ boy whocame home to-day. _Your_ boy!"

For Lans quite frankly and naturally had told his story. The hot bloodof the South was well in command and the light of reason was in the sorryeyes. 

"Aunt 'Tilda, all my life I've been excused and forgiven for myfaults--bat I'm going to work my way out now, God helping me! I'm goingto take whatever punishment and joy comes. Up there in the hills I waslike a devil caged. I had passed through a trouble and been worsted; Isaw Morley standing where I should have stood, had I been less a foolyears ago. I couldn't seem to see, up there, how he deserved all thatwas his. I was just maddened. I wanted to get on top and--I let gomyself! Cynthia seemed a child at first but all of a sudden she flashedupon all that was evil in me--and I went blindly ahead until I stoodamong them all in Morley's cabin. They all seemed so big and fine andtrue and I saw--myself! All at once I found myself wanting more than Ihad ever wanted anything in my life--to make good! I took my own way. Some day you will all understand. That little girl is going to have herchoice by and by--I only wanted my fair chance to win out. When shemakes her choice her soul will be hers--I promised Sandy Morley that!"

It was this that had sent Matilda to her knees beside the bed of Lans'smother. 

And one evening--it was two days before Christmas, Lans took Cynthia andhis Aunt Olive Treadwell to a theatre in Boston. The play was a popularone and, being late, Lans was obliged to take a box in order to getseats. Cynthia felt and looked like a child. The excitement andbrilliancy brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes dance. Shehardly spoke and only now and then heard what her companions said. 

"Lans, " Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is MarianSpaulding in the tenth row!"

This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned andlooked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in blackwas looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thinface remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthrallingplay drove it, for the time being, into shadow. 

"Blue is Cynthia's colour, " Mrs. Treadwell next remarked apropos ofnothing. "She's right handsome, Lans. You ought to be less a fool andbehave normally. She'd make a mighty sensation if----" But this did notinterest the absorbed third party in the box at all. 

When the play was over and the audience was crowding into the lobby, Cynthia noticed the girl of the tenth row near them. She was not lookingat them, but she gave the impression of listening to what they said. Again the face claimed Cynthia's attention. 

"Brother, " she said softly to Lans, "is that a friend of yours? Shelooks mighty sad. "

Lans gave another sharp start and rather abruptly replied:

"I knew her once. Come, little sister, that is our number being called. We must not hold up the line of taxis. Aunt Olive is out of sight. "

Strangely enough Cynthia did not dream of the play that night; nor didthe sad, fair face of Lans's one-time friend hold part in her visions, but she did dream of Lost Mountain as she had not dreamed of it in many anight. She was back among the dear, plain home scenes. She was planningwith Sandy the Home-school; she was in the cabin at Trouble Neck with thelittle doctor. The sun was shining in the broad, opened door and she andMarcia Lowe were sitting where the warm brightness flooded them. And atthat juncture of the dream something very vivid occurred. Quitedistinctly she heard the little doctor say:

"In all the world there is nothing so important as this, Cyn. Rememberit as long as you live. "

Upon awakening, Cynthia, in her still, dark room, found herself hauntedby the dream and the little doctor's words. They were startling, yetstrangely familiar. When, before, had Marcia Lowe spoken them; what hadshe meant? Then suddenly it came back to Cynthia. It was about littlechildren!

"Our loves and our poor selves!" Marcia Lowe had often said, andespecially when she and Cynthia were working over the little ones of thehill cabins, "what do they matter compared to the sacred lives of thesehelpless creatures?"

She had been quite fierce about it once when she had told Liza Hope thatGod would hold her responsible if she brought any more blighted soulsinto existence through Mason's passion and her own weak yielding. 

Lying awake and trembling in the small room off of Olive Treadwell's, Marcia Lowe's words returned with sharp insistence and kept Cynthiawakeful for many an hour. 

The next morning she was alone when the maid came to her and said a ladywanted to see her on very important business and had asked that theymight be undisturbed for a half hour. Cynthia, puzzled and half afraid, bade the girl bring the caller to the sitting-room in which she then was. 

What followed was so vital and impressive that all her life Cynthia wasto recall the setting of the scene. The whiteness of the sunlightstreaming into the east windows, the deep red of the wall paper, the tickof the marble clock on the shelf, and the crackle of the cannel coal fireon the hearth. While she waited for the visitor she was unconsciouslypreparing for the part and the lines of what was to follow. By the timethe slow, light steps were at the room door, Cynthia seemed to know whothe stranger was. The maid closed the door after the guest and thenCynthia said quietly to the tall, black-robed girl:

"You--are--Marian Spaulding!"

"He--he has told you?"

"No. Mrs. Treadwell--told me! Please sit down. "

They faced each other with only a few feet between them. Cynthia wasobsessed with but one conscious thought--she must go on as she was led;say what she would be told to say. She could not think for herself. Butthe stranger--distracted and ill at ease, leaped at conclusions; hurriedto her goal and took no heed of the obstacles in her path. 

"I did not know until last night that he--that Lans had a sister, " shesaid. "Our own affairs were so engrossing and--and exclusive--at thattime!"

Marian Spaulding had an odd habit of spacing her words as if the sharpbreaths in between were dashes to emphasize her thought. "I knew Mrs. Treadwell was aware of--of our arrangement--I knew, from Lans, that shewas broad minded and generous but when I saw you two together lastnight--I--I wanted to come to you instead of to her!"

An overpowering excitement in the speaker began to affect Cynthia. Shedrew her chair closer and whispered:

"Please tell me--all about it!"

The significant words rushed Marian Spaulding breathlessly onward. 

"I--I could not go to him--to Lans--until I made sure--as sure aspossible--that I would not be injuring him by--by my demands. I wantedto tell some one who loved him and would think of him, first. He wasalways so heavenly good to me--I would not harm him even--now!"

"No!" Cynthia's deep eyes were fastened on the white, strained face. "Ireckon no one would want to hurt Lans. "

"I was so unhappy when--when he saved me from my life of shame andmisery. There was no other way--and--and we had to choose! He was sonoble--it was I who--who--gave myself to him; he never exacted--anything. I--loved him as only God and I can know! Poor Lans never comprehendedwhy I left--but he--my husband was ill; dying and I could not help it. Something made me go back. It was the good in me that Lans had createdthat most of all compelled me to go. If Lans could believe that! oh! ifhe only could! A woman could, but could a man?"

Poor Cynthia was struggling to understand a strange language. 

"I'm right sure, " she faltered, "that Lans could understand. "

"Do you think so? Oh! I have been so tortured. He told me to come tohim if I needed him and God knows I need him now--but I wanted most ofall--not to hurt him--or exact too much from his goodness. You see----"a palpitating pause followed. Then: "I did not _know_ of my conditionwhen I went away; I only heard and saw the wretched man who was once, whowas still--my husband. I stayed and nursed him; he died--a monthago--and now--I must think of--of--the child!"

"The child?" Faintly Cynthia repeated the words and her bewildered mindstruggled with them and fitted them, somehow, into the Hopes' cabin, andthat scene where Marcia Lowe arraigned Liza. 

The door of the sitting-room opened and Lans entered noiselessly. MarianSpaulding's back was toward it and in her slow, vague way Cynthia waswondering why he should be there just then. The last shielding crust ofchildhood was breaking away from Cynthia--her womanhood, full andglowing, was being fanned to flame by the appeal this strange woman wasmaking upon it. Cynthia, the girl who had been caught in the net, had nolonger any part in this tragedy--she was free!

"The child?" she again repeated, "what child?"

"Why, Lans's and mine!"

Then Cynthia stood up quite firm and straight. She looked full andcommandingly at Lans who was leaning, deadly white, against the door hehad closed behind him. 

"Here is Lans, now, " she said, more to the haggard man than to the palewoman. 

It was as if, in those four simple words, she appealed to the best andfinest of him to deal with this fearful responsibility which was his, nothers. In that instant she relinquished all the forced ties that held himand her--she cast him off superbly at this critical time of his life; notbitterly or unkindly--but faithfully. 

Marian Spaulding turned and rose unsteadily to her feet, then withoutstretched arms, she staggered toward Lans. Over her pitiful, wan facea flood of passion and love surged--her lonely, desperate soul claimedits own at last!

"Lans! Lans!" she cried, falling into his arms; "you will understand!you must understand--and there is--our child!"

Lansing Treadwell held the little form close, but his wide, haunted eyessought Cynthia's over the head pressed against his breast. Cynthiasmiled at him; smiled from a far, far place, helpfully, bravely. Shedemanded his best of him with confidence, and the unreality of it allheld no part in the thought of either. 

"I must take her--away!" Lans found words at last to say. 

"Yes, " Cynthia nodded, still smiling her wonderful smile at him. 

"I will return--soon. Come--Marian!"

Cynthia saw them depart, heard the lower door close upon them and thenshe awoke from her spell. Sitting down in a deep chair before the fireshe took the incidents of the past few moments, one by one, and set themin order. Like an ignorant child selecting block after block and askingsome wiser one what they meant, she demanded of her new self the answerto all she had witnessed. 

The travail was long and desperate--and when Lans Treadwell found her, anhour later, he was shocked at the sight of her face. 

"My God!" was all he could say. 

"We must--talk it over, " Cynthia said gravely. "I can understand now. You see, dear, I couldn't have her hurt--her and--and the child. "

Lans dropped in the chair Marian Spaulding had sat in and bowed his headin his hands. 

"Was there ever such a cruel situation?" he groaned. Cynthia came to himand knelt beside the arm of his chair. She had never come to him sobefore and the touch of her body thrilled the man. 

"You did not tell her--about me, big brother? did you? You let herbelieve I am your sister. "

"Good God! how could I tell the truth? I was afraid of killing her. "

"And--the child. Of course you must not tell--now. "

"Cynthia, in heaven's name, don't be too hard upon me--you are my wife!"

Fiercely Lans proclaimed this as if, by so doing, he could find refugefor her as well as himself. But Cynthia shook her head and drove himback upon his better self again. 

"Those little words spoken by that man in the hills, " she whispered, "couldn't count, I reckon, against--all the rest. "

"They can! They shall, Cynthia. I can make the past clear to you, little girl----" Then he stopped still before the look in Cynthia's eyes. 

"I am a--woman, Lans!" it seemed to say. 

Presently he heard her speak. 

"You told Sandy, dear, that night in the cabin, that you would leave mysoul to me--until--well! You have left it to me, and the time has come!I have much to learn; but I understand a mighty lot now. It came to mewhile I waited, for you to come back from her! My soul would never beclean again, Lans, if--I forgot--the little child--hers and yours! Godwill be very kind to us-all, dear, if we do right. It's mightypuzzling--but it will come straight. You once loved her?"

"Yes, Cynthia--yes!"

"And you never loved me in _that_ way, dear?"

"You are my wife!" Again the fierceness, "you must and shall come first. "

"No, Lans; I am not your wife!"

And with this Cynthia stood up and clasped her hands close. 

"Every law in the land says you are!" Treadwell flung his head back andfaced her; "this is a hideous tangle, but above all--through all--you aremy wife!"

"I do not know, I cannot make you feel how I see it--but I am not yourwife! I--I do not want to be! Why, when I saw the light in--in MarianSpaulding's eyes a little time ago as she ran to you--I seemed to knowall at once--that it was not to you, Lans dear, that I wanted to run inmy trouble, but to----"

"Whom?"

"To Sandy, dear. Sandy, up there in Lost Hollow. "

"Cynthia!"

Was she shamming? Was she striving, ignorantly, to make escape easy forthem all? Was she utterly devoid of moral sense? "Moral sense!" Atthat Lans Treadwell paused. The glory shining from Cynthia's eyes as shestood before him, made him shrink and drop his own. The strength andpurity of the high places was upon her. She was lovely and tender, butprimitively firm. The law of the cities she did not know; but the law ofthe secret places of the hills was hers. The law of love and Love's God. 

"You must take her away, Lans, dear, and be right good to her as you havebeen to me, big brother, " the sweet voice, the unutterable tenderness andfirmness more and more carried everything before them; "and let thelittle child have its chance--poor lil' child! And by and by--oh! a longtime perhaps--when you are all mighty happy and safe, you must tell herall about it, Lans, and make her love me--a little! Tell her--it was allI could do. She will understand and be right glad. "

"And you--little Cyn?" The words came in a groan. 

"I? oh! I reckon this is what God meant me to do, Lans. For this hebrought me down The Way, and now he will let me go home!"

Mrs. Treadwell's step outside the door brought them both back to the poorartificial environment that bound them. 

"I--I cannot see her now!"

Cynthia crouched before the stern, conventional tread of the approachingwoman as if she were in a place she had no right to be and Lans quicklyopened a door leading from the sitting-room to a bedroom through whichshe might escape. And as the slight figure ran from his sight he had asickening feeling as if, wakening from a dream of mystery andenchantment, he found himself in the midst of sordid reality. The sweetpurity of the hills passed with Cynthia and the actualities of his futureentered with Olive Treadwell. 

"Lans, " she asked sharply, looking about the room, "who was the woman whocalled here this morning? The woman Cynthia saw?"

"It was--Marian Spaulding. "

"Good heavens! Did she talk to Cynthia?"

"She--tried to--Cynthia--could not understand. "

"She will some day, though, Lans! Can you buy Marian off? I wouldn'thave believed she was so vicious. Did she--lie?"

"I rather imagine she spoke only--truth. "

"Well! I reckon this is about the worst confusion that was ever broughtabout. Without being positively bad, Lans, you've managed to create amighty lot of trouble for a good many innocent people. "

"Yes, Aunt Olive. "

Lans was standing by the window looking down into the empty street. 

"What are you--going to do about it?"

Then Lans turned. 

"Aunt Olive, I'm going to untangle the snarl--somehow! And I'm going tostand by--Marian!"

"Marian? You talk like a madman, Lans, or a fool--and a depraved one atthat. You owe everything to Cynthia--you'll be held to it, too, by law!"

"Aunt Olive, " and then Lans laughed a mirthless, cold laugh, "I wonder ifeither you or I ever really seriously thought we could--hold Cynthia?There is no law that could keep her here. She is of the hills. She cameinto our lives just long enough to purify our air and--clear my vision. She'll go back now. We--cannot keep her!"

"Go back--to whom?"

This practical question took the smile from Lans's lips. 

"To Sandy Morley, I reckon, " he said grimly; "most of every noble thing Imight have had--gets to him--sooner or later. He always loved her; shehas just confessed to me that she loves him. "

CHAPTER XXVII

There was a crust of glistening snow upon The Way; every branch of thetall, bare trees was outlined with a feathery whiteness which shone, asone looked deep into the woods, like the tracery of some fantasticspirit going where it listeth without design or purpose. From LostMountain the shadows had long since fled, and the gaunt peak rose clearand protectingly over The Hollow, which, somehow, had undergone amysterious change in a few short months--or, was the change due to themagic touch of love that dwelt in the eyes of a young girl who had leftthe early train at The Forge and, on foot and alone, was wandering upThe Way with a song of joy trembling upon her lips? So quietly andquickly had she run from the station, that Smith Crothers, standing bythe door of the saloon opposite, had been the only one to notice thepassenger in the long coat, rich furs, and quaint little velvet hat. 

"Who's that?" he asked of the bartender inside. The man, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, rose stiffly and came to Crothers. 

"Ole miss from The Holler?" he ventured vaguely. 

"Ole miss--be damned!" Crothers was in an ill humour. 

"Company, maybe, for the Morley cabin. It's mighty 'mazing how manyfolks, first and last, do tote up The Way these days. But I don'tsee--nobody!"

Neither did Crothers, now, for the stranger was hidden from sight. Then he began to wonder if there really had been any one. The night'srevel had been rather wilder than usual, and Crothers was not as youngas he once was. 

The bell of his factory was ringing, however, and he unsteadily madehis way thither. 

It was Cynthia who was treading lightly up The Way, but not the Cynthiawho a few months before had gone so blindly to do the bidding of thatinner voice of conscience. 

"It was here, " murmured she, standing behind a tall tree by the road, "that you fled from Crothers the night of the fire. Poor little Cyn!"

That was it! The child, Cynthia, walked beside the woman, Cynthia, now, and the woman with clear, awakened eyes--understood at last!

"Poor little Cyn! How frightened you were and how bravely you foughtfor--me! Or was it I who fought for you? Never mind! we have comehome. Come home together, dear, you and I! How heavenly good it isfor us to come--together!"

At every step the weariness and sense of peril, engendered by herexperience, dropped from Cynthia. She was a woman, but Lans had lefther soul to her, and she could clasp hands with the past quiteconfidently and joyously. 

"Home! home!" The word thrilled and thrilled through her being, and onevery hand she noted the touch of Sandy Morley with tenderappreciation. She laughed, too, this thin, pale girl, and could Sandyhave seen her then he would have thought her shining white face, set inthe dark furs, more like, than ever, the dogwood bloom under the pines!

"And here I met him on The Way!" Cynthia paused at the spot where shehad stood that spring morning, and saw, with a shock of disappointment, the man who had usurped her childish ideal of Sandy Morley. 

"How lonely he must have been--when I did not know him! Oh! Sandy--tothink I did not know you. You, with your brave, kind eyes and yourtender heart!"

A tear rolled down the uplifted face. It was a tear of joy, forCynthia was going to Sandy. From the unrest and unreality she had fledto him feeling confident that he would gather up the tangled anddropped threads of her life, and weave them, somehow, into a new andperfect pattern. She had so much to tell him! And he was there, closeto her! Waiting, waiting for her to come to him and she could affordto dally by the wayside; gather up the precious memories--so like toysof the child she once had been and, by and by, she would go to him likea little girl tired of her day's wandering, and he would comfort her!

By the time Cynthia reached Theodore Starr's church all the heavinessof recent happenings was forgotten; it had no part in her thought. Thechurch was gay in Christmas green and red holly berries. The morningsun, quite high by now, shone in the windows. 

"Father!" whispered the girl as if in prayer, and then she knelt, whereonce her childish feet had borne her in terror, and buried her face inher hands. How well she now understood her dear, dead father! Strongin human love and sympathy, incapable of inflicting pain--even whenpain would have been better and kinder than the lack of it--how likehim she, the daughter, was! How she had slipped aside from the rightpath because weak desire to escape, or inflict pain, had been herportion. Well, she had suffered; had endured her exile; beenmercifully spared from worse things, and now God had led her--home!

The unseen presence seemed to bend pityingly from the rude desk-pulpitand comfort the gentle heart of the returned wanderer. 

Presently, choosing a time when the store near by was deserted, Cynthiaran from the church, across The Way, and escaped, unseen, to the trailleading up to Stoneledge. Her gay spirits returned and she sangsnatches of song as she once used to sing. There was no sequence, nomeaning of words, but the short sharp turns and trills were as wild andsweet as the bird notes. She tried Sandy's call--but her memory failedher there!

"Oh! the old tree, " Cynthia ran to it. For months and months she hadforgotten it, and the secret it held in its dead heart. Yes, the boxwas there! The box in which lay the outbursts of a girl's fancy andimaginings. With a mischievous laugh Cynthia removed the old lettersand put them in the bag that hung from a girdle at her waist. Then shewalked on to the old Walden Place. There a shock awaited her. Whathad happened? The crumbling walls had fallen in many places; but therewere props and scaffoldings, too! Sandy had begun his work ofredemption on the Great House. It was to be the home of the Markhams, but the surprised onlooker could not know that the property, taken bythe county for unpaid taxes, had been bought in by Levi Markham inSandy's name. 

"Dear old Stoneledge!" And then Cynthia sat down upon a fallen log andknew the heavy heartedness of one who arrives too late to receive thewelcome that was hushed forever. But suddenly her face brightened. Inthe general demoralization a portion of the house still stood--it wasthe wing, the library!

The roof had caved in, but the Significant Room stood open and stark tothe glittering winter sunlight! Reverent hands had removed thefurniture, books, and pictures; the stark and staring walls, with theirstained and torn paper, were bared to the gaze of every chancepasserby. Suddenly, to the yearning heart of the onlooker, a miracleappeared. The scene of devastation disappeared; there was a fragranceof honeysuckle and yellow roses in the sharp air and, in a dim, sweet, old, sheltered room stood a little girl with patched gingham gown andlong smooth-hanging braids of hair, gazing up at a portrait that noeyes but hers had ever seen. It was little Madam Bubble and she waslovingly, proudly, exultingly, looking at "The Biggest of Them All!"

Unheeded, the tears rained down the cheeks of the woman standing by theruins of her old home; she stretched her arms out tremblingly as if tohold the vision to the exclusion of all the rest of life. 

"Oh! my Sandy, you have indeed cut your way through your enemies. Oh!my love; my dear, dear love. "

How long she stood rapt in her vision Cynthia never knew. Her day ofwonders enchanted and held her oblivious of weariness, hunger, orphysical pain, but she must get to Trouble Neck; she must throw herselfinto the safe arms of the little doctor and--find peace and guidance. Later they--the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady and she--would go to Sandy'scabin as they had that night when Lans had claimed her and then--well, beyond that Cynthia could not see!

At Trouble Neck another disappointment met her. The trim cabin wasempty! The unlocked door gave way to the eager pressure; the sunnyroom was full of generous welcome, and a gleam of fire on the hearthshowed that the little mistress had not been gone long. 

Some people leave a room more vacant than others. Like the breath ofperfume, after the flower has been removed, their personality anddearness linger, making one miss them more, and long for them morekeenly. As a child might suffer at not finding its mother awaiting itat the close of day Cynthia suffered then. She wandered to the tableon which lay the little doctor's work--a child's dress! Beside it wasa medical book opened at a chapter on the diseases of--children. Andon the widespread book lay an unsealed note addressed to--Tod Greeley!

A smile, a wan, understanding smile touched Cynthia's lips, butpresently it softened into the dear, old, slow smile, and the girl bentand kissed the penciled name of the postmaster, for the dear, absenthand had rested there last!

There were bread and milk and bacon in the pantry, and with happyfamiliarity Cynthia made a meal for herself, and ate heartily. Afterthis she went into the lean-to chamber and taking off her hat andwraps, lay down upon the couch, for she began to realize how weary shewas. She slept several hours and was awakened by a step in the outerroom. Thinking it was Marcia Lowe she raised herself and lookedthrough the half-opened door. It was Tod Greeley! He had lighted theoil lamp and stood by the table with Marcia's note in his hand. Overand again he read it, then folded it slowly and put it in his breastpocket. 

A change had been wrought upon Greeley. He stood straight and firm; hewas shaven and shorn and neatly dressed; his face was happier, too, than Cynthia had ever seen it. The lazy good humour was merged intopurpose and dignity. 

"To-morrow, then!" Cynthia heard him murmur; "to-morrow then!"

He extinguished the light and passed from the house, leaving Cynthiamore lonely than she had been since she left the train that morning. 

For an hour or two Cynthia struggled with herself. Abstractedly sheknew that she ought not to go to Sandy Morley alone. Something thatsome one--she could not remember who or where--taught her, warned herthat it was not right for her to leave Trouble Neck that evening. 

"But why?" asked the great longing, "why?"

"You are Lans Treadwell's wife; his wife!"

At this Cynthia laughed outright. That part of her life had touchedher only as her awful experience with Crothers had done; except thatLans had gained her confidence in Man while Crothers had imperilled it. The real self of Cynthia was pure and untouched; ready to offer now, tooffer itself, upon the true altar of love and consecration. Nothingcould change that; nothing could blind her to it; but over and throughthe knowledge ran the discord of suggestion left by the contact withconvention, down, and far, from Lost Mountain. 

It was eight o'clock when Cynthia gained her triumph over the claimupon her, and cloaked and hooded, started out. 

She wore her own, old cloak and the red hood that Marcia Lowe's lovingfingers had knitted for her. Sandy must not be disappointed in her; itmust be little Cyn, not the Cynthia Lans Treadwell had claimed, who wasto put forth her appeal for help. 

The crisp, starry night was still and fine; the walk from Trouble Neckto Sandy's cabin brought the blood to the pale cheeks, light to thelarge eyes. How quiet the cabin was--and dark! Only one light shoneforth and that was from the study. Cautiously Cynthia stepped closeand looked in; the curtains were parted where a hasty hand had leftthem. Sandy, seated near the glowing fire, was painting at his easel. After a long day's work in the open air he was indulging his fancy, forgetting the trials and disappointments of his life in the poortalent that was his. The canvas was so placed that the watcher fromoutside could see it plainly over the back bent toward it. A facegleamed from a crown of dogwood blossoms--pink and white blossoms! Itwas the face of--Madam Bubble! The girl-face with the slow, alluringsmile and the waiting eyes!

The woman outside bent her head upon her cold clasped hands while thewaves of love and surrender engulfed her. All her life she had beencoming to--Sandy! He had cut down every barrier but one! He mustcrush that! How strong he looked, how fine!

A tap as gentle as the touch of a bird's wing fell upon the frostyglass and Sandy turned sharply. He waited a moment, then came to thewindow. Cynthia, frightened at her daring, shrank into the shadow andbreathed hard. Sandy waited a moment longer and then drew the heavycurtains together close, leaving the outer world in darkness. 

A moment later Cynthia, regaining courage, crept close to the glass andtapped again. This time Sandy strode to the door, flung it wide and, standing in the panel of warmth and light with uplifted head, saidsternly:

"Who is there? What is wanted?"

Who he expected he hardly knew himself, but the answer he receivedcaused him to reel backward. 

"It's--it's lil' Cyn, Sandy, and she wants--you!"

Then he drew her in, closed the door upon the world and, holding herbefore him by the shoulders, looked deep and searchingly into her eyeswhich met his unflinchingly and trustfully. 

"Thank God!" was all he said, but in that moment poor Lans Treadwellpassed unscathed before his last judge. 

"How thin you are, little Cyn!"

Sandy had drawn the big leather chair to the hearth and seated her init. He took off the cloak and hood and then stood back. 

"I reckon the longing for home did it, Sandy. "

"You have--been homesick?"

"Oh! mighty homesick. I have wanted the mountain until my soul hurt. "

"Poor lil' Cyn. "

"Say it again, Sandy, say it again!" The dimmed eyes implored him. 

"Poor lil' Cyn. "

No suggestion of impropriety had entered with Cynthia. Sandy was toofine and self-forgetful to be touched by worldliness. Cynthia had cometo him; he and she were safe!

"And Lans, Cynthia?"

"Come close, Sandy. There, sit so, on the stool. I want to touch you, I want to see you near while I go back--go away from our mountain for atime. Come with me, Sandy, down to Lans!"

Then she told him. The red firelight played on her pale, sweet face;her hand sometimes reached out and lay upon the shoulder by the arm ofher chair; once the fingers touched his cheek--but Sandy did not moveand his eyes never looked up from the heart of the glowing log. 

"It was a long journey to the day when I understood, Sandy. It was ahard path for ignorant feet and blind eyes--but God was very good tome. The South is slow with us-all, dear, but up there in the North--Iawakened! I think it came--the truth, dear, when she--the girl, ran toLans. In the mighty times of a woman's life she can only run thatway--to one man! And like the mists, clearing from Lost Mountain, theshadows left me and I knew right well that come what might, Sandy dear, in all the time on ahead, in joy or sorrow, pain or--death it would beto you I would want to run. "

The log fell apart in rich glory and then Sandy looked up into thedrooping, flower-like face. 

"Don't, lil' Cyn, " he whispered, "you do not understand, but--you mustnot speak so to me. "

Then she laughed. 

"Oh! I reckon I know what you mean, Sandy. I've been through it alland--run away from it! Sandy, tell me true; before the good and greatGod, doesn't that poor girl belong to Lans more than I do?"

"Yes!"

"Isn't his duty to her?"

"Yes, yes, lil' Cyn. "

"Then what is left? Just--you and me, I reckon, Sandy. "

Sandy gripped his clasped hands close as if by so doing he could bettercontrol the rising passion of his love for the girl beside him. Herignoring of stern fact turned his reason. She was right--but she waswrong! He must protect her and never fail her; he must not be lessthan Lans. 

Then her words came to him in the chaos of his emotions; a new thoughthad claimed her. She had finished, at last, with the story of herexile; she was back among her hills. 

"And the factory, Sandy, it is coming on right fast, I reckon?"

"It is nearly done. "

"And--the Home-school?"

"That, too, is nearly ready. "

"You haven't forgotten the lil' room, off in the corner, have you, Sandy? The lil' room where the baby-things are to come to me tobe--cuddled?"

Sandy shivered. 

"You--haven't left _that_ out, have you, Sandy?"

"I had, lil' Cyn, but I am going to put it aback--to-morrow. "

"I'm right glad, Sandy, for I've learned some mighty sweet lil' tunes, and I've bought some pictures and books with stories that will makethem-all laugh when we've taught them how. My trunk is full of thingsfor the babies. "

Sandy permitted himself one look at the dear face so close to his own. It wore the white rapt look he remembered so well; the wonderful, brooding tenderness as fancy held it. It was so she had looked uponhim when, as a ragged boy, he sat beside her. She had awakenedimagination within his starved soul and given his ambition wings withwhich to soar. 

He and she were now bent forward toward the smouldering fire; he on thestool, she in the deep chair. 

"Do you remember, Sandy, lil' Madam Bubble?"

"I reckon I remember nothing else so--clearly. "

He looked away, he could trust himself no farther. 

"And the 'Biggest of Them All'--you remember him?"

"I--I have forgotten him, Cynthia. "

"No--you have not forgotten him, Sandy!"

"He--he does not seem to have any place, lil' Cyn. "

"Oh! yes and yes he does! I reckon he is bigger than even you orI--know!"

Did she suspect the terrible weakness of desire that was overpoweringhim? At this thought Sandy gripped his hands closer; he felt her deep, true eyes upon him and a rush of blood dyed his dark face to crimson. Cynthia saw this and laid her cool hand upon his shoulder while sheasked bravely, daringly:

"Do you love me--Sandy?"

What other woman on earth could have put that question at such a time?He and she were alone in the empty woods and the night held them. Sandy turned to her. 

"As God hears me--yes, lil' Cyn, with all my heart and soul. I haveloved you all my life. "

"In this bag, " Cynthia touched the bag at her waist, "are the letters Iwrote to you, Sandy, while you were away. I hid them in an old tree byStoneledge. The tree kept them safe for--me. There are a rightmany--all answers to the one you sent me. Do you want them, Sandy?"

"Yes. "

"Here--Sandy!"

The letters, more precious than any other gift, lay in his keeping atlast. 

"God bless you, lil' Cyn. "

She smiled divinely. 

"I wandered far down in the valley, Sandy, and I had a hard lesson tolearn; a hard thing to do, and I've come home to find you waiting forme. Oh! tell me, dear, isn't there one law, just one in our land toset a lil' girl free who has made a mistake?"

Behind the two by the fire a door opened and, on the threshold stoodLevi Markham perplexed and awed. Slowly the meaning of the scene cameto him; Matilda had somewhat prepared him; the question of the girl bySandy's side shed a blinding light upon the confusion of his thoughts. Standing there, rugged and strong, he seemed the personification ofpower and solution. But he was waiting; he must know what Sandy felt!He drew back into the cold, dark passage and played the eavesdropperfor the first and last time in his life. 

"Mine! mine!" Never had Sandy's voice known that tone before. Levibowed his head. 

"You are mine! Yes, lil' Cyn, there is a law, there must be a law thatcan give us to each other; I have been waiting for you by The Way allmy life, and you have come to me, lil' girl, at last--my lil' Cyn. "

Then Levi Markham stole away. He felt along the passage withoutstretched hands for his eyes were blinded. He must waken Matilda;he must--but there he paused. The door, at which he had just stood, was opening! He had time, only, to crouch in the shadow of a turn ofthe hallway before Sandy and Cynthia came out. Sandy had his right armprotectingly around the girl; her bright head rested on his shoulder;in his left hand Sandy held high a lighted candle. 

"We must tell them, dear heart, " he was whispering; "they two beforeany one else. "

And then Levi, seeing flight possible, ran to his sister's room inorder that he might share the confidence that he already possessed. 

THE END