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

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

"It's Cornell and the beggarly allowance," thought Lansing, but it was no such thing.

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

"Yes, uncle."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, uncle."

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

The boy set his jaw.

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

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

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

"Thank you, Uncle Levi."

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

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

Again the vital silence.

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

Had Markham asked if his nephew knew whether he would ever want to eat a meal again, the boy could not have been more surprised. College, to him and his set, was as natural a sequence as dessert after the courses preceding it. For the life of him Lansing could not prevent a stare.

His aunt had left him utterly unprepared for this.

"Now this is my proposition:" Markham had his elbows on his desk, his chin resting on the points of his clasped hands; "I will take you into the mills on exactly the same terms as I would any other young fellow--except that you will share my home--until you learn the rudiments of the business and discover whether you have any business sense or not. By the time you have mastered that and experienced some bodily labour, you will be in a position where you can choose, to some degree, your career. Should you, then, wish to enter college, I will permit you to select one, and I will see you through. It is my firm belief that between a preparatory school and college there should be a space of time, except in particular cases, for looking backward and forward--a breathing time; a time for relaxation and the acquiring of fixed aims. College should not be passed out to a boy as a plum or a luxury--it's too grave a matter for that. All my life I have deplored the lack of it--but I had to live and suffer before I realized its importance."

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

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

"Your kind! Go back!" Levi's eyes flashed under his shaggy brows.

"What is your kind? Have you ever mingled with those above or below you? And as to going back--is it degrading to place yourself in a position from which you can accept or decline a great opportunity intelligently? I was forced to learn my lesson in a hard school; you can still learn the lesson even with the limitations of luxury. Your 'kind' is good, bad, and indifferent, and there are other kinds. I see you before me, young and hopeful--but ignorant and blind. I want to open every avenue to you that leads to successful manhood. You are losing nothing by my plan; you are gaining much." Something very pleading rang in Markham's voice, but Lansing was deaf to it.

"Uncle Levi--I cannot! I'd be a disappointment to you if I tried.

I've got to go on with the fellows. I'd lose more than you know if I broke away now and--and buried myself in the mill, and then tried later to pick up. You've never been through what I have--the break would be the end of me! You'd know it when it was too late. I mean to try to be the best of my kind, indeed I do--but the fellow I am is the result of my training and it means everything to me."

What Levi Markham saw before him now was the son of Lansing Hertford--all resemblance to the mother was gone. Baffled and defeated by a something invincible and beyond his understanding, the old man faced the calmness of the young fellow in the chair across the desk.

When he spoke he addressed a Hertford only.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I suppose you have taken this method of degrading my dead brother and me. That one of your humble origin can estimate the impression upon another of such an offer as you made to my nephew is quite beyond expectation. The Hertfords have always been gentlemen and ladies and _you_ would send the last of the race, by the power of your vulgar money, to work among common labourers in order to break his spirit and pride! You are too blind, apparently, to appreciate the honour my brother paid your sister by marrying her. His personal shortcomings could not possibly outweigh the position that he gained for her when she took his name. Through all these years I have suppressed my feeling as to the matter because I have felt that you and I, working together, might place the son of your sister and my brother in a position that would reflect credit upon us both; but since you have failed to recognize your opportunity and, in sordid revenge, have sought to degrade him, I assume _all_ responsibility in the future. I am, comparatively, a poor woman, but hereafter _Lansing Treadwell_ and I will share and share alike. I shall endeavour, to the best that is in me, to prove to him that it is such men as you who hold the world back! Men who over-estimate money and undervalue blood and social position are not to be envied or trusted.

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

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

"And an old grudge," Markham returned.

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