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

Never in all her life had Cynthia received a letter, never had her imagination 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 of letter boxes.

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

"Yours and Mr. Morley's bear the same writing—Noo York! There ain't been a Noo York letter in this yere post-office since I came to The Hollow. It's a right smart compliment, Miss Cyn!"

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

The cold, crisp air of late autumn spurred her to action, and she kept on running, with the letter burning her hand like flame, so tightly did she grip it. Before she reached the broken and dilapidated fence separating the home place of Stoneledge from the trail, she paused beneath a tree to take breath and reconnoitre. She looked at the letter then for the first time, and she was sure it was from Sandy. Her heart beat painfully and her eyes widened. Looking about to make sure of privacy she tore open the envelope and lo! at the first words the 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, had permitted himself, when writing to Cynthia, the solace of imagination and memory.

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

DEAR MADAM BUBBLE:

I am remembering everything and holding to it. I shut my eyes and I see you standing by The Way with your face like the dogwood flowers in the spring—shining and white and happy! That—er—way is how it is going 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-standing waiting like what you said. I've met much kindness and a great friend—it's the noise and strangeness and many folks what turn me crazy-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 because I'm fighting hard to get something fit to bring to you when I come back. 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 is the sort I am and, besides, I've got to find out what this—er—life is going to make me into. If I shouldn't be worthy to come up The Way to you—you better not know. But I will be! I will be! Thank you for what you've done for me and most for letting me think you'll wait and be ready.

Cynthia dropped the letter in her lap—for she was crouching beneath the tree. It was a badly written and much-soiled letter but no missive straight from heaven could have performed a greater miracle upon her. A radiance flooded her face from brow to chin, and her eyes glistened with the happy tears that never overflowed the blue-gray wells that held 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 like what I said!"

There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in the 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 autumn leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia spied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment she pushed her letter into it.

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

But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl at that moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between this moment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and how was she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems that confronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept from the door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. Old Ivy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight in the Walden "plot," and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did not understand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a great deal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to question where she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took to pacing 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 from her aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made matters worse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured to call at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorable that the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at the outer door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked into the hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowe had left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Walden raised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strange flashes 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 not take the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!"

Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floor and 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 upon Marcia Lowe.

"Go!" she commanded with sudden courage and desperation. "Go! Don't you hear Aunt Ann?"

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

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

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

The excitement of the letter faded when the magic sheet of paper was hidden from sight, and stern necessity brought the severe lines back to the thin, pale face. It was just at that moment that Smith Crothers came down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves and branches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off his hat. Whatever the girl felt and believed of the man was gained though indirect information—he had meant nothing personal to her before, and it was something of a surprise for her to realize that he was a good looking man and could smile in kindly fashion.

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

"Cracked!" The mountain interpretation of this word flooded Cynthia's consciousness like a flame that made plain all the subtle fear of the past 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, little Miss Cyn, to coming down to the factory and doing light work and getting mighty good pay?"

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

"Don't take on without reason," he soothed. "Ain't I done something for 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 straight and true—wouldn't things be worse, bad as they be, if I didn't take folks and pay 'em? Chillun is better 'long o' their mothers, when all'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 the young-uns."

Cynthia thought of Sandy's moan over the baby-things of the factory and her 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 and save them!"

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

The tone was friendly and kind, and the actual necessity of the future gripped 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 right in my office where I can have an eye to your comfort and pleasure. Just copying letters and addressing envelopes and I will give you"—Crothers paused; his sudden desire was carrying him perilously near the danger point of being ridiculous—"I'll give you three dollars every week. Three whole dollars!"

With vivid memory Cynthia recalled the long years that it had taken to earn 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 you make the old lady comfortable, and I can let you have a little mule—all for yourself—to tote you to and fro."

"It's—it's very kind of you, Mr. Crothers," Cynthia panted; "I'll ask——" Then of a sudden she recollected that there was no one to ask. For the first time in her life she was confronted by an overpowering condition that she must meet alone! Just then a sharp touch of cold struck her as the changing wind found the thin place in her coarse gown.

"I'll—I'll come, and thank you, Mr. Crothers," she said in shaking voice. "I'll come, next week!"

"Good!" cried Crothers, "and I'll send up the mule—we'll put its feed in saddle bags—I'll throw that in and——" the smile on the man's face almost frightened Cynthia, though the words that followed seemed to give it the lie.

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

When he had gone Cynthia drew a long breath, and shivered as though some evil thing had threatened or touched her in passing, but an hour later she was thankful her sudden impulse had led her to accept Crothers' offer, for the wind changed and brought from its new quarter a biting warning of winter. Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp, dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefully up into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh that aroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that woman learns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her rugged horse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a business proposition.

Sally was gathering wood behind her cabin with a fervour born of fear and knowledge. She knew what the change of wind meant and her wood pile was far from satisfactory. Long before Marcia Lowe came into sight the old woman stood up and listened with keen, flashing eyes alert.

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

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

"It's coming this-er-way!" Sally concluded, and since there was no other human habitation on that particular route but her own she rightfully appropriated the approaching visitor. With a quickness of motion one would not have suspected in such an old body, the woman ran into her cabin and, as a society belle might have rushed for her toilet table, Sally made for a closet in the corner of her living room. From there she brought forth a can of vaseline and daubed some of the contents artistically around her lips; then she tied over her shabby gown a clean and well-preserved apron and smoothed her thin, white hair.

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

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

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

"Good afternoon, Miss Taber."

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

"If it ain't Miss Lowe!" she exclaimed, coming forward cordially. "It sho' 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 Trouble Neck—the men still distrusted her—but the women were rapidly being won to her.

"I 'low you can count on me, ma'am. I says to myself often, says I—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 blowing away a feather.

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

"It's about—Miss Walden," she said softly, moving her chair closer to Sally.

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

"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, Miss Ann'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 none o' them dangerous, jes' all around cracked, ma'am."

"But the little girl, Miss Taber, she ought not to be alone there with Miss Walden. You see I have studied medicine and I know—it is dangerous and—it mustn't be. See here! I cannot do anything without making 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 Miss Walden would do anything for her friends; put it that way and then"—here Marcia Lowe laid some money in the old shrivelled hands, "there will always be money for you to buy what is necessary for the comfort of you all."

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

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

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

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

Toting up the hill, Sally's thoughts wandered back to Theodore Starr and settled on a certain dark, cold night when he sat in her cabin piling the wood on her fire, while she lay shivering with chill upon her wretched bed. All the charms had failed, the rabbit foot, under the 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 for a 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 the bravery of his spirit and the homely task of keeping warm the shivering body. He had put his coat over her and aroused her to interest and courage.

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

"Ah' mighty right He war'," Sally now muttered, panting up the last rise. "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 and stood before Ann Walden crouching by the fire, and Cynthia awkwardly trying 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'se afraid to let any one know I'se got. Miss Ann, chile, there ain't any one 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 even through the growing mists of Ann Walden's brain.

"Cyn," she commanded, "get Ivy—where is Ivy? Tell her to make up a bed 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 had settled down now with serious intent; the door was permanently closed except of entrances and exits and the two small sliding windows in the front and back of the living-room were never opened, and they were coated with grease and dirt until even the brightest day filtered through but dimly.

Martin was depressed and forlorn, he took what was offered him, asked no questions and seemed far and away from any hope of reasserting himself. 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 or thinking of Sandy. The letter that had, after many weeks, drifted to him, had been read to him by The Forge doctor who happened to be riding by when Martin tremblingly pleaded with him for help.

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

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

"Now, Morley," he cautioned, when the letter was ended, "you keep your hands 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 and it's his one chance. If you want to do anything for him keep yourself above water; have the family respectable for him to come back to. I'm not much on prophesying, but remembering what you once were and what his mother was, I have hopes of Sandy."

No one knew or could have guessed that poor Martin was heeding the doctor's words, but he was. He had stopped drinking. Not a drop of liquor had passed his lips for weeks, and the craving was stronger at times than Martin could endure. At such moments he stole to the outshed and, gripping a certain little ragged jacket, which still hung there, to his twitching face, would moan: "Oh! God, help me for Sandy's sake." Not for his own—but for Sandy's sake always. And God heard and upheld the weak creature.

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

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

Just then the dream faded; the man on the hard settle pulled himself up, looked dazedly at the almost dead fire and—listened! Some one was fumbling at the door; some one was coming in! Martin's heart stood still 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. But Mary came into the dim room with Molly clinging to her. They tiptoed across the floor toward the stairway and had almost reached it when Martin flung a log of wood on the fire, and in the quick flash of light that 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 could illuminate more than the cold black room.

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

Frightened and trembling the girl came forward. She looked far older than her years. Her bold, coarse beauty had developed amazingly during the past few months, and the expression on her face now roused all the dormant manhood in Morley's nature. Ignoring the woman by the stairway, he gripped Molly by the shoulders, and holding her so that the lurid light of the flaming logs fell upon her, he drove his questions into the girl's consciousness and brought alarmed truth forth before 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 by her youth and beauty!

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

"She's—mine!" the woman panted. For the first time in her life she was awed by Morley; "she's mine and—the devil's. That was the bargain and no questions asked. The devil pays good wages, Mart. We'll—we'll share 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 cause I'm old and unsought either. I'll look after her, Mart—but—we-all have got to live!"

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

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

"Mart!" Genuine terror rang in Mary's tones. "Mart—she's mine and——"

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

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

"Stop!" cried Morley, unable to hear the brutal repetition. "You would sell 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 and forgotten past, Morley gave expression to his emotions in the language of 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 frozen horror. Mary staggered and fell. In falling she struck her head against the andirons on the hearth and lay quite, quite still while a stream of blood from a cut behind the left ear mingled with the ashes and turned them dark and moist. It seemed hours that Morley looked and looked before he could master himself and move toward the woman upon the floor. Finally he listened to her heart, but his own pulsing ears deceived him; he tried to raise her up, but his strength was gone, and he let the lifeless body drop again on the hearth. Then a craven desperation overcame him. Gone were his courage and power, like a maddened criminal he strode to the stairway and wrenched the locked door 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. Then wrapping an old bedspread about Molly and keeping her close to him, he made his way down the stairs and out of the house. Molly did not turn to look into the lower room, she believed Martin, and she was numb with terror.

"Whar we-all going?" she panted, as Martin dragged her on. This question roused Morley. Up to that instant he had not considered where he was going; he only felt the necessity of flight.

"To—to Trouble Neck," he answered as if some one else were speaking through 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 fear and anguish. By the time she and Martin reached the Trouble Neck cabin her uncanny shrewdness and cunning were well to the fore.

The little clock on the mantelshelf had just struck two when Marcia Lowe raised her tired eyes from the book spread out on the table before her.

The one large room of the cabin was kitchen, dining-room, parlour, library; all that was not included in bed-chamber. The lean-to was Marcia Lowe's sleeping apartment and a tiny room above reached only by a ladder from outside, served as a trim, cleanly resting-place for a chance guest or a needy traveller.

The little doctor lifted her aching eyes and took in the rude comfort of her home-place with a deep sigh.

"Oh!" she whispered—for she had adopted the compromise of the lonely woman and talked aloud to herself—"oh! if they could forget my sex!"

She was thinking of a conversation she had had with The Forge doctor that very day.

"I—I wish you would work with me," she had pleaded; "they would accept you; 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 good reason, if I let any petticoat Saw Bones tamper with them; no insult intended—only compliment, dear lady! Your books read like fairy stories; 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 for bodies. 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 needed up-er-here. Now as to you, my dear young miss, I'd have to put you under lock and key or buy you a return ticket to that fly-in-the-face-of-Providence state of yours if you tampered with the bodies of these people. That uncle of yours juggled considerable in his day, but souls are one thing; bodies, another."

Marcia Lowe now clasped her hands behind her tired head and raised her eyes to the low ceiling.

"Just for one faithful soul!" she murmured; "no, one faithful body that would trust itself to me for—a month; a month! A few days of starvation; a magic little pill; a spell of patient waiting and then—a miracle."

But no response came from the stillness of the night and Miss Lowe was about 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 the door, drew aside the dainty white curtain, opened it halfway and asked:

"Is that you, Hope?" She had promised Liza to bide with her when her hour 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 and seeing 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—for to-night? I have something to tell you."

Marcia Lowe sensed that something serious lay behind the request, and rose 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 back and, 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 did not 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 the boy's coming back, Miss Lowe, ma'am, deed I did, and now he'll come back to——" Martin could not frame the hideous truth in words; he gulped miserably and went on; "please, ma'am, keep—her, Molly, from Teale and them-all!"

"And you?" So simply did the question come that the man replied in kind.

"I—I can't let them-all cotch me, ma'am. Come morning, I'll be past hurting any one, more."

The childlike pathos in this criminal's voice and attitude confused the listener. For the life of her she could not deal with the situation in any ordinary fashion; it seemed like a dramatic incident bungled by amateurs. 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 she laid right still. I expect she is dead."

The ludicrous overpowered even the turn of possibility, and the little doctor 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, you and I will make sure."

By the time Morley had mechanically fulfilled these commands, Marcia Lowe had decided, from the sound of Molly's breathing, that she might safely 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 to face your future like a man—like Sandy's father. He will well understand. I will stand by you and see fair play for you; I'll pay for a good lawyer, and you will take your medicine, whatever it is, and be 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 form beside her, the little doctor realized the struggle.

And so they reached Morley's cabin and entered, like ghosts, into the fear-haunted place. Mary was gone. The fire was smouldering in the last flashes, the damp ashes were drying—but Mary had made a bodily escape.

"So!" whispered Marcia Lowe. "It was better to make sure. Go upstairs, see if she is there."

Mary was not there.

"Now come back."

Through the chill of the early morning the two drove silently back to Trouble Neck and with strange foreboding the little doctor made her way at once to the lean-to bed-chamber—Molly, too, was gone! She had made her 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 had accompanied him.

"Well!" said Sally Taber to Cynthia; "I 'spect Mart Morley had to get his livin' somehow. The yaller streak's got the best of him."

Cynthia made no reply. Oddly enough in her fancy she was gazing upon the 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 ladder to his much-needed rest, the little doctor had fed him and given him hot 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 do nothing more for her. Forget it all, and to-morrow you and I will consider the future."

So Martin slept and slept, and the front door of the cabin was kept closed and locked.

Refreshed and humble, Martin, on the evening of the following day, cautiously crept down the ladder from his loft-chamber and tapped upon the outer door of the cabin.

It was a very smiling and trim little body that welcomed him and bade him 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, some hot biscuits, and baked potatoes. There's a loaf of cake, too, and coffee 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 not meet 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've done and meant to me. I'm ready to go now, ma'am."

"Where, Martin Morley?" The little doctor was pouring the coffee, and the 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 self again. And you can pay me—I have my bill ready."

Martin eyed her furtively and tried to steady his hand as he reached out for the plate of savoury food she was passing to him. They ate silently for a while, then Marcia Lowe tried to cheer him by scraps of gossip 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 faced her gloomy guest with deep, serious eyes.

"You feel you owe me something, Mr. Morley?" she asked. They were sitting opposite each other by the hearth; a pouring rain dashed against the window and a rising wind howled through the trees. A sleek yellow cat turned around two or three times and then settled comfortably 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 all for yourself?"

Morley was becoming accustomed to the little doctor's quaint way of putting 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 for yourself—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 in mind—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 male resenting this power of the female—all, all held part in Morley's mind, weakened by trouble and malnutrition, but above all was the innate yearning to prove himself for Sandy. Martin had the supreme instinct of parenthood.

"You know you were willing to die for him, Mr. Morley. Are you not willing to run the chance of a better, cleaner life?"

Marcia Lowe was bending forward now, her face radiant and inspired—she looked young, lovely and compassionate.

"I—I—don't follow you, ma'am." Poor Martin was caught in the toils of the enthusiast.

"Then listen. I have studied and—conquered to a certain extent—a great and noble help for humanity—but I am hampered in my work because I am a woman. Oh! no one—no man can understand how terrible it is for us women to look beyond the man and woman part of life and see human beings needing us, crying out to us, and for us, to realize that often we might help, in our own way best of all—if only something, over which we have no control, did not bar us. You see, men have no right to deprive human beings of any assistance the world can give. If we women tell men of our hopes and our beliefs, they accept or decline as they think best—and so much is lost! Why, I have been pleading with The Forge doctor ever since I came, to work with me in doing what I long to do, and he will not—he laughs! I am not rich enough or important enough to bring a big doctor from my home to do this thing for you, all that I could do alone. So here I stand with, I solemnly believe, a precious gift and I—I—cannot give it to you because—you won't trust a woman!"

Marcia Lowe was talking far and beyond Morley; he stared bewildered at her, but something within himself was reaching out and touching, with soul-intensity, the tragic appeal from the little woman opposite.

"Uncle Theodore Starr came here because he loved his kind and felt that you all needed him most. Because you had no choice, he believed you would accept him. Can you remember how he worked among you? served you and 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 only the hypnotism of the woman across the hearth guided him. Marcia Lowe saw this, and grew desperate.

"Oh! dear, what shall I do?" she cried helplessly. "Can I say anything that will make you understand? The thing I have is safe and sure. It might go wrong with you—only might—but I want, I must have, your consent. Just suppose it did go wrong with you, but that you knew it would 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 stood in the full glow of the fire, while the roar of the wind and the flaring of the red light filled the room with sound and colour. The slim, pale woman looked very weak and small to be the leading actor in this tragic drama of the hills, and the big, stupidly staring man opposite seemed very insignificant as a great sacrifice.

"See, I will put it this way. They call me the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady because—I give them all a little drink of water and it makes them better! I made the little Hope boy well; ask Liza, she knows. I gave your Sandy a cup of cold water and it helped his throat—I could have helped him more, poor boy, if he had not gone away. Martin Morley, I want to give you a cup of cold water—oh! please trust me! You must do 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 nurse you and care for you as a daughter might, and then, at the end, I believe as truly as God hears me, that you win stand straight and take your place—your place—among men!"

"A charm?" Morley panted, for he was quite overcome by the power exerted over him.

Full of zeal and trust, seizing upon anything to gain her end, Marcia Lowe replied:

"Exactly—a charm! See!" and suddenly she turned to the closet beside the chimney-place; taking out a small bottle she held it up to the light with a glow of reverence upon her uplifted face. "Fifteen tiny grains of this!"

Morley was fascinated.

"Fifteen grains," he repeated, like a man talking in his sleep—"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 you grateful, 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, the little doctor tested her charm. She was nurse and companion as well as physician. Willing to do battle and take the consequences for the faith that was in her, she wrestled with her problem. Men had proven the 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 no demur; then his haggard face and imploring eyes pleaded for food, and on 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 must put a watch upon myself or I will find myself going to the cupboard and betraying 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 have you, 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 Morley slept. She stole like a thief to her closet and ate her food when, and as she could.

"It's the nurse of Martin Morley who refreshes herself," she thought comfortingly.

It was on the fifth evening of the battle with the deadly foe of the mountain poor-whites, that Marcia Lowe heard a knock upon her cabin door. So alone and absorbed had she been for the past few days that a demand from the outer world startled and annoyed her. Martin was sleeping—he lay in the lean-to chamber—so on tiptoe the little doctor went to answer the summons.

The storm had passed unnoticed by Marcia Lowe, and a bright starry heaven lay behind the tall figure of Tod Greeley on the doorstep.

"Oh! Come in, come in!" whispered Marcia—and oddly enough she felt a glow of relief and welcome. Greeley came in and grimly took a chair by the cheerful fire on the ashless hearth.

"I've come on a mighty unpleasant errand, ma'am," he said; "and I ain't one as can pass around sweets before the bitters."

All the way to Trouble Neck Greeley had arranged this speech, and the medical flavour of it had given him courage.

"You're very kind to come yourself, Mr. Greeley," Marcia Lowe was smiling; "another might not have been so welcome. And now for the bitter! I'll gulp it bravely, for I like sweets better."

She sat down in her own rough little rocker, and swayed calmly to and fro.

"Well, mum, the County Club, in session down to the store, delegated me to 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's them as is scared. I ain't standing up or setting down for them Speak Easies back o' The Hollow, but business is business, and no man knows who's going to get struck so long as——" Greeley glanced cautiously about—"so long as—you're hiding what you are hiding!"

For a moment Marcia Lowe tried to readjust her thoughts and get them into some sort of connection; finally she laughed, laughed so long and so noiselessly that Greeley grew nervous.

"Lord, ma'am!" he faltered, "you can't afford to take it that-er-way lest you've got your place full of 'em!"

"Oh! Mr. Greeley. They think, the club thinks I have something to do with the raid? Why I did not know, until some one told me, that there had 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 creature huddled on the bed; so small, so pitiful was the unconscious man that he 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 were hardly able to frame the words:

"I'm helping him to lead his people back to their heritage! Oh! you do not understand; but he and I—with God on our side, are fighting—just plain 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 in the living-room and bring to the bedside of the sick man a tiny kettle of some smooth liquid; he saw her dip a spoon in and then hold it to the lips of Morley. She had forgotten Greeley; forgotten all but the man 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 back to 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 its keeping, saw Cynthia Walden astride Crothers' mule jogging down The Way to the factory. Sandy, arrayed in immaculate attire, was borne to his school among the New Hampshire hills by train and coach. He was desperately lonely; thoroughly frightened, but he was well in body; healthfully sustained by good food, and he had so much money in his pockets that he was in deadly fear of being waylaid and robbed. Cynthia, on the contrary, was dressed in a shabby gingham gown freshly laundried and stiffly starched, but much mended, and her pocket was guiltless of money. She had no fear of being attacked, so she sang sweetly and joyously as she bobbed about getting her blood circulating, for the old coat and hood she wore were pitifully inadequate for the crisp weather. Cynthia was young and hope led her on; besides, she had just deposited a most poetic letter to Sandy in the hole of the tree. Old Sally Taber had smoothed the problem of Stoneledge for the time being, and there was going to be plenty of money now that Crothers had opened 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 Madam Bubble from her mule; "and moons on dark nights, and hot suns at Christmas?" Then she laughed, and the laugh left the dear, slow smile as a reminder after the joyous sound died away.

"The Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady is in the church," Cynthia exclaimed suddenly as she neared Theodore Starr's small edifice from whose chimney smoke was rising. Then she kicked the fat sides of her mule and turned her supercilious head aside in order to escape Marcia Lowe's eyes, were they scanning The Way.

"It's right noble of her to take care of Sandy's father," the just mind granted; "but Aunt Ann and I—must do without her!"

A touch of yearning lay in the words. Cynthia needed what Marcia Lowe might mean to her, and only loyalty to Ann Walden restrained her.

But Marcia Lowe did not see Cynthia pass. For months now, through the doors and unbarred windows, the light and air had come into the little church, and the spirit of Theodore Starr had, in some subtle manner, been permitted to live again. People dropped in occasionally and sat and thought of the dead parson. Sometimes Marcia Lowe welcomed them and coaxed them to tell her of her dear uncle. She always sat in what she called "the minister's pew," and there were times in her lonely detached life when she seemed to see the calm, fine face looking down at her from the poor pulpit. He never looked the weak man who was afraid of Ann Walden; to his loving niece he was ever the strong brother-of-men who had died while serving them not worthy of him! As Cynthia rode by, Marcia was building a fire in the drum stove, lately placed 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 Way enshrouded Cynthia as she hurried on.

That day in the factory was the hardest day of Cynthia's life. To a young girl born in freedom, be that freedom of the meanest, the confinement and authority were deadly. Then, too, to witness the utilization of the baby-things that were mere cogs in the machinery of Crothers' business, hurt the mother-heart of the girl cruelly. At the noon hour she tried to make the sad little creatures play—but they had forgotten how, if they ever knew; they, stared at her with wondering eyes; ate all of her lunch she offered, and shivered in their thin clothes by the wretched fire in a shed provided for their leisure time.

"Oh, Sandy, Sandy," murmured Cynthia as she looked about, "I'll help you get them away from here some day."

A new fear and hate of Crothers grew in her heart as she impotently suffered for the children, but Crothers was as gentle and kind to her as any wise and considerate father could have been. He was patient with her bungling and errors; he did not turn her off to his clerks for instruction, he spent his own time upon her. Every moment that he was near her Cynthia trembled, and when he accidentally touched her she recoiled sharply. Crothers noticed this, and at first it angered him; then caused him much amusement. Unconsciously the girl was fanning into sudden and violent flame that which might have slumbered on for months. Before the end of the first week Crothers had noticed how lovely Cynthia's shining braids were as they twined around her pretty, bent head. His eyes grew thoughtful as he noted the lines of the softly rounded shoulders and dainty girlish bosom. The little dent in the back of the slim neck was like a dimple and even the small roughened hands were shapely and beautiful.

"How old are you, little miss?" Crothers asked her the third day of her business life, and Cynthia fearing that her youth might prove an obstacle answered blindly:

"Going on—fourteen!" She looked more, for her South, in spite of all her meagre upbringing, had developed her rapidly. Crothers smiled indulgently.

When Saturday night came four dollars was handed to Cynthia by Crothers himself.

"It was to be three," she said, holding the money toward him. He took the fingers in his, closed them over the bills, and said:

"Just a little present for a nice little girl who has tried so hard to be 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 was there 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. She did not understand herself, nor the man who was her employer; she did not understand conditions nor the yearnings that possessed her; she only knew that she must fight against becoming a poor white, and learn to overcome the limitations of her birth, and Crothers seemed her only chance. On the long rides to and from the factory she thought often of her poor mother and wondered about her bad father. She wished she had learned more about them while Ann Walden was capable of telling her. The time was past now when the mistress of Stoneledge could impart any reliable information to the girl. When the weather permitted the old woman paced the upper balcony crooning to the hills, and as cold and storm shut her inside she seemed only happy in the library. So Sally Taber, reinforced by the money which supposedly she so miraculously had saved, had the room made habitable. Mason Hope was coaxed into giving some of his valuable time to the repairing and by mid-winter the place was comfortable.

"Ole miss is jes' a plain moon-chile now," Sally confided to Marcia Lowe at one of their private conferences; "it's right silly to oppose her."

"Yes, give her everything you can, Sally, and oh! if she ever has flashes of reason get her to talk and—remember what she says!"

"Deed and deed I will," promised Sally. "And if she ever do get her wits back it will be in dat ole libr'y-room. She acts right human thar at times."

Marcia Lowe was sorely puzzled about Cynthia those days. If she were only sure that Ann Walden would never recover her reason she would take her chances with the girl and plead Theodore Starr's cause, but with no actual proof, and with Ann Walden's evident past instruction to Cynthia, she hesitated to make her own claims. Then, too, there were times when doubt rose in her mind, not as to her uncle, but Cynthia's parentage. There might never have been a child born to Queenie Walden. The Hollow story of adoption might be true after all. That would have accounted for old Miss Walden's bitter resentment. It was all very difficult 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 than the others, and chatted sociably. Marcia Lowe had much to be grateful for, and when, one morning two weeks after Morley had been pronounced cured by his faithful doctor-nurse, he came to her, as she sat in the church, and said quietly:

"Miss Lowe, I'm going up yon——" pointing to his own cabin, seen now between the bare trees, "to straighten it up a bit," she wept as if her heart would break. Martin did not witness the outbreak; he had set forth upon his task. Marcia Lowe was alone and upon her knees.

"Dear God!" she repeated over and over; "dear God! he is saved. He'll open the way to others."

Martin Morley went upon his new course unheeded for a time, for a tragic happening to Cynthia and a calamity to the community threw the little doctor and many others into chaos.

Cynthia had been a month in Crothers' factory, when one late afternoon he said to her:

"Little miss, could you bide at The Forge tonight?" Cynthia started back and looked at him.

"It's this-er-way; you've become mighty helpful to me and I've got a batch of letters to get off by the morning's mail. It looks like there is going to be snow, too, and I'd hate to keep you late and then send you 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 down safe and sound at my boarding-house for a good night's rest."

Cynthia gave her usual shudder and sought about for an excuse. She knew Crothers' boarding-house keeper; knew her to be a decent soul who had more than once, lately, brought a hot meal to her at midday when she brought Crothers'. There was snow in the air, too, and a late ride through the woods at night was almost more awful than to stay at the factory.

"They-all will worry," she faltered in her pretty, slow way.

"I sent word by Hope's boys," Crothers reassured her, "they've just gone. I knew I could depend upon you."

Cynthia struggled to control herself, and finally gave her smile and shrugged her shoulders.

The mistress of the boarding-house brought to the factory a piping hot supper for two at seven o'clock. She seemed to know all about Cynthia's proposed stay, and showed no sign of misunderstanding it.

"You better fotch the chile in 'bout nine," she suggested to Crothers as she went out; "she do look clean beat now. Quality don't last out at work like trash do; they certainly do tucker out sooner."

Crothers bade the garrulous woman a pleasant good night, and then set himself busily to the task of mastering a pile of correspondence on his desk. Cynthia went to the little table by the window that served as her writing-desk and asked quietly what she should do. Crothers handed her a list of names and a package of envelopes and told her to address them. The old clock on the wall ticked away comfortably; the warmth and the late hearty meal combined to drive away fear and apprehension of, she knew not what, and Cynthia was soon absorbed in the task set her.

Presently the kerosene lamp on her table flickered and went out; then glancing 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 the shadows.

"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 her work, but the unrest of the early afternoon possessed her and she felt a tear roll down her cheek—the cheek nearest the man at her left side.

What happened after that Cynthia never could tell clearly; she only knew that a large, hot hand wiped the tear away and a burning kiss fell upon her cheek!

Horrified, and shaking with fear, the girl sprang to her feet and reached the opposite side of the desk near the window looking out toward The Way. She had but one thought: she would break the window and make a dash for safety! But Crothers was upon his feet also. He did not offer to come nearer, but he leaned over the desk and said quietly:

"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 your best friend; why, see here, I'll give you a right smart new coat and hat and dress—for a kiss; just a little kiss."

Cynthia's eyes seemed fastened to the smiling, cruel face, but she did not tremble now. Calmly, clearly, she was thinking what she could take with which to defend herself.

"Just—one—more—kiss—lil' girl," and now Crothers was coming around the corner of the desk. It seemed like some fearful nightmare, but Cynthia was ready!

"Just one—more—kiss right on the pretty mouth!" The large, white hands were extended and the teeth showed through the red lips. At that instant Cynthia seized the lighted lamp which stood near, and with desperate strength flung it toward the reaching body! There was a crash, 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 crept toward the door, unfastened it and gained the open. There were feathery snowflakes in the air and they touched Cynthia's face like holy kisses, wiping away the evil one that had burned there but a moment before. Groping and running she reached The Way and, from behind a tree, paused to take breath. Never had she felt more self-possessed or secure; her mind was clear and sane. If Crothers came out, she could outstrip him in a race for the boarding-house, and she meant to go to the boarding-house that night! Something within her guided her now; something was protecting her and saving her—it was the Woman Cynthia was by and by to be!

As the girl by the tree panted and reasoned, she saw, from the factory window—the window of Crothers' office—a darting tongue of light; another followed and in a moment the glass was ruddy—and smoke was issuing 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 had their way:

"Let him die!" she muttered, setting her teeth close and gripping her hands; "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 flames were feasting on the rug by the desk and the unconscious man's head lay upon that rug!

Cynthia knelt beside Crothers and called his name, but the ugly smiling lips made no motion of reply. Then she seized him under the arms and frantically tugged and tugged at the heavy body. The flames were almost at her feet, the wool of the carpet had caught first and the licking tongues followed the burden she bore, greedily. At last she was at the door; outside, and the safe, black night surrounded them! She lay Crothers down and breathed fast and hard. The snowflakes were larger; thicker now, and there was a harshness in their touch.

Presently Cynthia began to call louder and louder, and the fire gaining power lighted the night and crackled merrily.

"Help! help! help!"

And help came. First on the scene were the boarding-house mistress and her sons; then followed others of The Forge, and soon a group had gathered and were aimlessly running about, giving orders and foolishly bemoaning the havoc that was spreading.

Quite calm and uncaring Cynthia answered the questions put to her. She defended herself without once realizing that she was doing so.

"Crothers got up suddenly—and fell!" she said to the mistress of the boarding-house who was working over the man on the ground, bathing his face 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 to die. Now that he was out of the fire, she did not want to see his eyes open again, and yet she was straining her own to get the first sign in his. Of a sudden Crothers looked full at her wonderingly, dazedly, and at 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 uncloaked and unhooded and ran for her life until, overcome by weariness, she paused to take breath. Looking back she saw only a dull glow where the factory 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 animal darted across her path she recoiled, remembering another animal with face and form of Man.

It was three o'clock in the morning when Cynthia left The Forge—though how the hours had passed from nine till three she was never able to explain;—it was eight o'clock when she passed Andrew Townley's cabin and saw smoke curling from his chimney. Sensation was slowly returning to her; she felt cold, weak, and hungry, but with the senses aroused she realized that she could not go home! She could not face Ann Walden's vacant stare, or Sally Taber's coarse cheerfulness. In all her world she was alone, alone! But even as she thought this her weary feet were bearing her to Theodore Starr's little church which was never locked by day or night. She reached the door at last, and with all her remaining strength pushed it open and staggered up to where the steps led to the small raised altar. Dropping down she bent her aching head upon her arm and sobbed:

"Father! Mother!" simply because in all God's world no other words came to her relief.

Theodore Starr's little daughter had come to him quite naturally in her first great sorrow!



CHAPTER XIV

And there Marcia Lowe found her. Fortunately the little doctor went early to the church, for she had conceived of a Christmas such as The Hollow had never known, and it seemed fitting that Theodore Starr should be the host!

Quite merrily she entered and went directly to the stove to start a fire. As she drew near, the outstretched form of Cynthia Walden caught her eyes and she cried aloud in astonishment and fright. At first she thought the girl was frozen to death, for she lay so still and her thin clothing was evidence of the danger run.

"Dear heart! dear heart!" whispered Miss Lowe, overcoming her desire to take the girl in her arms until she had made a fire. Once the genial heat began to spread Marcia Lowe set a kettle of water on the stove and then gave her maternal instincts full play. She gathered the slight form close and kissed again and again the thin oval cheek and close shut mouth.

"Poor little, little girl!"

The warmth and sound stole into Cynthia's far place and summoned her back. Her first look was full of terror; her second was one of unearthly joyousness, and then because the woman of Cynthia had no need to battle longer for her, the child made its claims and, clinging and sobbing 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 heavy coat about her and forced some drops of hot water between the stiff, chilled lips. Then she bathed the face and hands gently with water cooled 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 buy food—anything to be had, for she knew instinctively that whatever was the cause, Cynthia had tasted no food that day.

"Come back soon!" moaned the girl crouching by the stove, "I am so afraid."

After she had eaten some stale crackers, soaked in diluted condensed milk, 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 young figure. Marcia Lowe saw that she might hope to win her way if she did not startle the benumbed mind.

"Were you hurt, dear? Was any one hurt? When did it happen? How did you hear?"

After each question Marcia waited, and then put another. Still that fixed, steady gaze.

"I—I was there. It was night. He—he kissed me—don't look like that! 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 close mine—there are only you and I and—God here."

"He—he kissed me, Crothers did! Then he wanted me to do something—oh! I do not know what, but something he thought I could do—I felt it, and—and I threw the lamp at him. It was lighted and he went down in a heap and I—I ran right hard, but I went back and pulled him out when the fire started. I do not know why—for I want him out of 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 swayed to and fro with closed eyes and Cynthia on her breast.

Vividly she seemed to see the late scene. The helpless girl; the brutish man; the lonely night shutting them in and only a miracle to save. Details did not matter, and the miracle had come, but the after effects were here and now.

It was near noon before Marcia Lowe dared take Cynthia away from the shelter of the church, and when she did so she chose an hour when all but Greeley were absent from the store, and he was in the rear, eating his dinner.

"You must come to Trouble Neck, little Cyn," she said firmly; "you'll be safe there, and we must think this out."

Cynthia made no demur, and wrapped in Marcia Lowe's coat—Marcia had a lighter one beside—she clung close to the little doctor and walked the three miles to Trouble Neck without a word of complaint.

"It's plain good luck," Marcia Lowe thought, "that Martin Morley is out of hospital." And then she smiled grimly up into the girl-face beside her, for Cynthia was fully as tall as she.

It was late afternoon when Tod Greeley strode over to Trouble Neck for no particular reason. Outside the door he stood and listened to low-spoken words and snatches of song.

"'Taint nowise normal, I reckon," mused he; "a woman's tongue and mind has got to have some one to hit up against, or the recoil is going to do some right smart damage to the woman herself." Then he knocked, and went 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're always welcome."

"I brought some news. Crothers' factory is plumb burnt to the ground."

"Land sakes!" ejaculated the little doctor in the idiom of her home town; "any damage besides the factory?"

"Crothers is right used up. They say he tipped over the lamp in his hurry 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 say she acted like she was possessed. She pulled Crothers out of the flames and saved his life I reckon—that is, if it is saved! He ain't perked up much yet, 'cording to reports. But Miss Lowe—little Miss Cyn ain't come home! I'm tumble feared lest she went back again for something, and——"

Miss Lowe got up from her chair and cautiously motioned Tod to the doorway of the lean-to.

"Look!" she whispered. Greeley expected still to see Martin, but instead he saw the delicate, sleeping face of Cynthia Walden. He drew back with a stifled cry.

"That there room o' yours," he faintly said when he reached the fireside again, "is right nerve-racking. It's like one of them Jack-boxes at Christmas."

"She only stopped here because she was tired. When she awakens I will take her home," explained Miss Lowe.

Greeley was nonplussed, but when he was in doubt he turned the subject and talked more than usual.

The following day Cynthia was taken home. Providence and the strain and excitement saved her from serious harm, but when Marcia Lowe left her by the gate of Stoneledge there seemed to be something tragic in the fact that after such an experience, no explanations were necessary. Ann Walden was past any earthly worriment, and Sally Taber could not understand 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 it over with Uncle Theodore."

The golden winter sunset streamed through the window and lay bright and fair like a shining way up to the altar. Marcia walked the brilliant strip and sat down in the minister's pew. Wrapping her heavy coat about 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 to rise before her.

"If you could only tell me all about it, dear," she whispered. "I would help any little girl. God knows, but I could help yours so much easier! 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 Lowe turned 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 Parson Starr. I seem to feel like it was only yesterday when he rode up The Way and sorter settled down like a blessing long o' us-all. Lately, as I 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 then went on to explanify. I'm right old in years, ma'am, and I'm doddering, I expect, but I reckon I knows as much as that po' moon chile 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 mornings Hope has to lick him down The Way—he hates that-er-much to go. Come to-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 to have something to offer him by way o' excusing myself. 'Parson, I'll say to him, parson, this I done 'long o' "Greater Love."'"

Marcia Lowe's eyes filled with tears as she took the poor old fumbling hands in her own.

"Dear, dear friend," she faltered, "God will not need your service. He has chosen a burnt offering instead of a human sacrifice. The factory is in ashes now, and for a time, the children may rest."

"Sho'!" murmured Andrew. "Sho' to be sure." Then he wandered back to that past which held Starr.

"The last time I saw the parson was that-er-day when he went a riding off to the Gulch to help ole Miss Lanley out o' life. He had lil' Miss Queenie long o' him—she was the Walden girl as was."

Marcia Lowe sat up straighter and again gripped the wandering, wrinkled hands. Her uncle's letter came vividly to mind and she felt suddenly that she was being led by old Townley back to clear vision.

"Go on!" she whispered soothingly, seeking not to confuse the rambling wits. "Just where was old Miss Lanley's place?"

Andrew laughed foolishly.

"Lanley!" he pattered on. "Susie May Lanley! I reckon she was a right putty 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 jealous long o' gals, but she never took no heed—but Landy! she died forsaken and lone, and times is when I think she would have been a mighty sight better off if she had took me!"

Townley's long reminiscence had tired him woefully and he began to cry pitifully, 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 full radiance of the late sun flooding over them through the western window. For a half hour he slept and when he awakened he seemed hopelessly addled. 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 Theodore was married by some one living near old Miss Susie May Lanley's!"

Just as Marcia Lowe was leaving the church, Cynthia came running down the trail. She was smiling and calm.

"I came back," she said confidingly, "to tell you something. I've worked it out myself."

"Yes, dear;" the girl's face struck Marcia strangely. A new expression rested 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 on just 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 a cruel 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 shining over Lost Mountain, it's all so right safe and still and happy that I'm sorry for the hurt of last night. No, I am not going to suffer. I'm going 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 so easily! 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 teach you some necessary things. Things like—well—book things! Things that Sandy just loved."

"I reckon I will, Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

Then she was gone as she had come. Crothers' touch had only alarmed her; it had not soiled her.

"Thank God!" murmured the little doctor; "the woman in the child shielded her from all but physical shock! And what a quaint philosophy for a girl to evolve."

That evening as Marcia Lowe stood before her little mirror in the lean-to, braiding her long smooth hair, she talked a bit for comfort's sake.

"It's plain luxury to lie in my own bed again," she said, "the bench in the other room can never be made anything but a martyr's cot." Then she glanced up and faced her own smiling image with the braids twisted about the head.

"Oh!" she faltered, falling back, "oh! Uncle Theodore!" For there, smiling at her with the slow, lingering smile, the face of Cynthia seemed to shine out by the flickering candlelight, instead of her own!

The long dressing-gown gave a childish setting to the little doctor's form, the coronet braids; the happy, smiling face was young and wonderfully, strikingly like Cynthia's.

"They always said I was so like Uncle Theodore! I've got Cynthia to her father by way of—me!"

Then the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady did a most unaccountable thing—she fairly pranced about the room.

"I've found it!" she sang; "without resurrecting old Miss Susie May Lanley! What's a stupid marriage certificate compared to God's plain handwriting? I can keep my secret now, Uncle Theodore, until the right time. It was so good of you, dear, to give me proof."



CHAPTER XV

Seven years passed, leaving their traces, and upon a certain afternoon in August Levi Markham and Matilda sat on the piazza of the Bretherton home and awaited the arrival of Mrs. Olive Treadwell.

Old Bob, Sandy's collie, lay at Levi's feet. Bob was fat and full of years; he wore a heavily studded collar with perfect dignity and had, apparently, quite forgotten lean days and promiscuous kicks. Levi could now shuffle his feet with impunity. Bob never suspected ulterior motives 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's achievement, and Sandy's absolute love and loyalty to his benefactor, had done much to relieve Markham of years instead of adding them to him. Matilda had not fared so well. She looked like fragile ware, but she never complained and with quiet courage she went her westering way thankfully.

"Levi is wonderfully softened," she often thought; "it doesn't hurt him so much these days to praise instead of blame, and naturally folks respond. It's mostly on account of Sandy. Levi does so mortally hate to lose that when he wins out he thaws out!"

The broad acres of Bretherton were rich and full of harvest as the old brother and sister waited that afternoon. At last Levi snapped his watch 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 glad to 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 the evening 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 put on for him."

Matilda opened her eyes.

"Levi," she said; "I'm not one to nose about much, but what is the meaning of all this?"

Levi set his lips grimly.

"I never knew that Treadwell woman to break in after a long silence but for two things," he replied; "either she wants something or she wants to get rid of something. Three years back she asked for help when she found that precious nephew of hers——"

"And ours, Levi," Matilda put in; "we can't disown him. Blood is blood even if it clots."

"Well, our nephew, then! When she found young Lansing Treadwell eating up 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 put him there!"

"You speak real comically sometimes, Levi. There are times when I could think Sandy was talking through your voice!"

"Well! well! every man has a streak of the dramatic in him!" Markham's lips relaxed, "and I must say that to see Sandy Morley and Lans Treadwell good friends without either sensing the true relations of birth and tradition, tickles me through and through. I guess that Treadwell woman would have done her prettiest if she had caught on. But she doesn't know where Sandy hailed from and she's covered the Hertford name out of sight for personal grudge, and those two youngsters sailed into each other as if they were steered by Fate and no one interfering. Lans Treadwell can't get anything but good out of Sandy, and there isn't a soul living—you and I included—who could draw Morley from his course, so I've looked on and chuckled considerably."

"Brother, I sometimes wonder how it is that you trust Sandy as you do—you never question."

"Not out loud, 'Tilda."

"But he does not always explain. Now his working this summer as he has! Every other summer it has been in the mills, but this summer he had to have more money than you gave him. What for, Levi? I ask you flat-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 more money I took for granted that he did and so long as he didn't hint for me to give it, I sort of allowed it wasn't any of my business. He's mastered the rudiments at the mills; he's over twenty-one—just over—and I rather enjoyed seeing him take the bit in his teeth. But I sensed that Mrs. Treadwell was coming to get rid of something to-day and 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 I march her off."

Matilda nodded and again shut her eyes while she knitted her soft wools into a "rainbow scarf." When she spoke, her thoughts had taken a sudden and new turn.

"I'll admit, Levi, that Sandy's clothes set on him as I never saw a man's clothes set. They are the making of him. He's terrible good looking—considering!"

"Considering—what?" Markham frowned at the placid face and close-shut eyes. "Considering! ugh! Why, 'Tilda, there is blood running in that boy's veins that we Americans ought to bow down before! There are times when he looks at me in his big, kind, loving fashion, that I feel as I did the first time the poor little dirty devil raised his eyes to me, 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 any one would have looked for."

"Thank you,'Tilda."

And then for a long time they sat in silence and thought their own thoughts. 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 to the station presently appeared bearing Mrs. Treadwell.

Olive Treadwell was handsomer than ever, for her gray hair softened her features and the years had added just enough flesh to her bones to insure grace, not angularity.

"I am going back on the six-two train, Mr. Markham, if you will permit your coachman to take me to the station. Lans and I have a very important 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 go inside."

Mrs. Treadwell greeted her hostess and sat languidly down, taking off, as she did so, her long dust coat and displaying an exquisite gown of pale violet.

There was a little desultory conversation, two cups of delicious tea and one of Matilda's choice sandwiches and then Markham led the way to the library.

Mrs. Treadwell took the deep leather chair, Levi lowered the awning over the west window, and courteously sat down opposite his visitor.

"It is years since we met, Mr. Markham," Olive Treadwell said; "but you have been very kind to me, meanwhile. I am not one to forget."

Markham nodded his head and lowered his eyes. After a decent pause Mrs. Treadwell continued, feeling her way through her remarks like a cautious person stepping gingerly over a mental ice pond. She always seemed to leave a subject open to more than one interpretation and by the lifting of Markham's eyebrows or the raising of his eyes she chose her footing. The raising of his keen eyes under the shaggy brows was very disconcerting and illuminating.

"I know, my dear Mr. Markham, that you are not as worldly as I am; I am confident that along certain lines of conventions we will differ now, as we have in the past, but, being worldly I cannot bear that an injustice should be done that would cause you to act in such a way as to defeat your own aims and ideals."

The eyebrows went up as if they were on springs, and Mrs. Treadwell leaped to a safer footing.

"Of course, when I refer to worldliness, I mean social worldliness. I have learned, I have been forced to learn, the justice of your once-proposed dealing with my Lans before he went to college. Your business sense cannot be questioned. Had the boy been placed in your hands then, I really believe his outlook on life would have been clearer and finer. He has associated with those who have coloured his views by—well, let us say, artificial lights. Still, the boy is the best of his kind—I will say that for him. I hope I can make you believe that I have come to you to-day entirely for your own best interests—not his!"

And now the steely eyes met the soft brown ones and demanded the nearest approach to truth that Olive Treadwell had to offer. She flushed 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 are one of the few men who regard your wealth as a trust; your capacity for acquiring wealth a talent for which you are responsible. As I said before, I feel that had I realized your true motives at the time Lans graduated from preparatory school, I would have been eager to place him in your charge to learn the great business of life and the use of wealth in your way. I made an error; I confess it willingly. Since then 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 have always said that if I must trust myself, my confidence, or my money to anyone, I would choose a person who, by training, instincts, and possibilities most nearly was akin to myself. I sincerely believe inheritance and blood do count. Now just suppose——" Mrs. Treadwell gingerly put her weight on the next footing; "suppose you were obliged to intrust your wealth and future interests to one of two men, would you not feel safer in the hands of the man who, for family reasons and by 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 in one 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 few words as possible? I see that you are embarrassed by what you have been kind enough to come to tell me—I believe it will help us both if you state your facts without further explanation or preparation."

The tide had carried Olive Treadwell out into midstream—it was sink or swim now!

"I will do so. I cannot bear to see you duped by your adopted—shall I say, son?"

"I have never held the position of father to young Morley. I've helped him to find himself as I have many another young man. He has no reason to dupe me. We understand each other fairly well; better, I think than most 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 I had 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 judgments until 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 his career even when I knew he was beyond any caution or judgment of mine. I know that he has shamefully compromised a young woman and quite openly flaunts his relations with her by calling them some new-fangled name. Perhaps I am a narrow-gauge man, madam. All my life I have been obliged to travel from a certain point to a certain point—I'm made that way. I have endeavoured to look about to help my fellow-men, when I could in justice do so, but I have stuck to the tracks that seem to me to lead safely through the land of my journey. I am not interested in branch roads or sidings."

Mrs. Treadwell was a bit breathless and angry but she was too far from shore yet to indulge in relaxation.

"Lans is not an evil fellow; he is high-minded and will prove himself in due time. I really am only seeking to help you be patient until he has had his opportunity, and not, in the meantime, make a fatal mistake. A new era is about to dawn when men and women, for the good of the race, will attack social conditions from a different plane from what you and I have been taught to consider right. Lans is in the vanguard of this movement—but I only implore you to give him time and while we are waiting let me ask you this—would you be more lenient to—to this protege of yours than you are to Lans, if I could prove to you 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 relations with a young woman in Boston?"

Levi Markham took this blow characteristically: he sighed, raised his eyes to the speaker's face, and said calmly:

"I thank you, madam, for your interest in my affairs. I can readily see that you would not dare come to me with this matter unless you had facts. I appreciate your good-will toward me and Lans, but I am just wondering if this—this relationship of Sandford Morley's with a—with the young woman, might not be viewed as leniently as Lansing's—if all were known? He might call it by a new-fangled name, you know."

"Why, Mr. Markham! His intrigue is a low, vulgar thing. That is exactly what I am trying to make you understand. The difference lies right there. Lans is open and above-board; he's a gentleman. This young Morley is——"

"Well, well, madam!" Levi held up his hand calmly silencing the indignant voice. "I know Lansing has taken every one into his confidence who chose to lend an ear; we have all shared his life whether we approved or not and I will say this: young Morley has never asked any one to play confessor for him, but I am going to give him an opportunity 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 was distracted. She felt that Markham was playing with her! Perhaps he knew all about Morley's escapades and preferred them to Lans' newer ideals.

"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 is said and done, ma'am, there's no law in the State that confines me to leaving 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 securing the best possible good for the trust, as you so well put it, in my keeping. You are quite right also in saying that I consider the power of money-making a talent. It is my only talent and I do not underestimate 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 I discover that I have been duped, I'll give, outright, a good sum of money to you in trust for Lansing!"

"You think I—I have simply tried to blacken Morley's character for personal 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's son to inherit rightfully. He will have all that I die possessed of. I am seeking his interests but only justly and humanly. When he first came 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 love with him. Has trusted and helped him socially. Why, he made his college life easy for him by his own popularity. Quite by accident I discovered the vulgar intrigue of this—this Morley. I saw him go into a house where a little seamstress of mine lives! I inquired; I found him out; and—and, not for any low gain, but gain in the larger, higher sense I pocketed my pride and came to you as helpless women do come to strong men and you make me feel like a—village scandal-monger!"

"I beg your pardon, madam. I am sorry that my manner suggests this to you. But can you not see that I must master this situation in my own way? 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. No matter what the outcome of this is, Levi Markham, I reckon you'll live to thank me for putting you on the right track."

"I'm still on my narrow gauge, madam." Markham smiled not unkindly and put out his hand.

"Please bid your sister farewell. I shall not return to Bretherton, I imagine. I will never willingly abase myself again, not even for Lans!"

When she had gone Markham sank into the big leather chair and looked blankly before him. His eyes were fixed across the desk where he himself generally sat, and a kind of pity moved him for the part of him that no one ever knew or suspected. In Sandy Morley, he had realized nearer his yearning and ambition than he ever had before. His paternal instincts had been, to a certain degree, gratified. The boy had seemed so 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 been deceived?

And then Markham pulled himself together and went around the desk to his revolving chair. It was as if the stern man of affairs took control and demanded of the doubting creature opposite, common sense and plain justice. "Hold your horses, Levi," he cautioned; "bide your time. Don't get scared off. Do you remember that old mine that no one else took stock in? It bought and feathered your first nest! Just you hold to that and keep your mind easy until you get onto the job yourself!"



CHAPTER XVI

Sandy came down from Boston that evening, tired-eyed and dusty. He walked up from the station because he had taken an earlier train and he wanted the walk through the quiet, sweet woods and fields before he met the two friends from whom he always kept his worries and troubles. By the 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? Outwardly they had wrought wonders with him. He was over six feet tall, broad and good to look upon. His clean-cut dark face was rather stern and serious, but his eyes had caught and held the light and kindness the world had shown him since he left Lost Mountain. When Sandy smiled you forgot his sternness; he could look very joyous, but recent happenings had set a seal upon his brighter side. Well dressed and well cared for he strode ahead, taking a cut be knew well through the woods and pastures leading up to the farmhouse, and for the first time in years the homesickness for Lost Hollow surged over him. Always in his deeper, more thoughtful moods the old home-place had a part. For years he rarely ate a meal, when he was hungry, without a grip of memory taking a flavour from the food. His hours of ease and pleasure were haunted by grim recollections of toil and dreariness which he had once endured, and which others, like him, were still undergoing. He never forgot, never became callous; but as time went on and success became more certain, he learned to estimate the value of utilizing his chances and economizing his strength and powers. As in the old days of preparation among the hills, he put in safe keeping his earnings, never counting them; never trusting himself to the encouragement or depression of their amount for good or ill—he awaited his hour and call. And, too, as in the old days he mistrusted and feared Molly, so now there were moments when he, superstitiously, expected some one or some thing to defeat him in his aims and ideals. For never had his vision faltered. He was still preparing to help Lost Hollow and all them who dwelt therein.