"So it seems! So it seems!"

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

It was the evening of the day of the letter that Sandy Morley, sitting rigidly in the chair that Lansing Hertford had lounged in, listened to as much of an outline of his future as Levi Markham felt he could comprehend.

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

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

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

Sandy was stronger and better for his days in Bretherton and, never having had any great consideration shown him, he looked upon Levi Markham as a veritable God especially upraised for his guidance and protection.

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

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

The shade at the broad window behind Sandy had not been lowered, and a very magnificent black night riddled with stars stood like a shield against which the boyish form and pale face rested. There was a crumbling fire on the hearth, and the lamp on the table was turned low.

Markham, listening to the slow, earnest voice, became hypnotized by its quality and pure purpose. He felt the dreariness and hopelessness of the hard childhood, and the hate that Mary Morley had aroused seemed to the listener to be the first vivifying happening. He never took his eyes from Sandy's face from first to last. The years of labour, self-sacrifice and fixed purpose stirred him strangely, and the touch of spirit introduced into the boy's voice when he approached the end found an echo in Markham's heart.

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

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

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

"Hertford, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Markham was noted for a sense of propriety. He kept his mills and lands in good condition because he was wise and sane; he housed his employees decently for the same reason, and he insisted upon their cooperation. He never let his taxes lapse, nor his money lie fallow.

He had, hidden in a drawer of his desk, a valuable diamond ring that he took out in secret moments to enjoy. Occasionally the jewels were sent to Boston and put on the wheel because the artistic soul of Levi Markham demanded that through no carelessness of his should their lustre become dimmed. For much the same reasons Sandy Morley was entered upon his career in a manner befitting the hope that was in Markham for him.

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

Cynthia Walden came slowly up the trail leading to the old gray house.

Since the day of the flood which bore old Ivy forever from sight, she had confronted so many strange conditions that her eyes had the haunted, frightened expression common to the mountain people. The curse of the hills seemed to have settled upon her. She often said to herself, "poor whites," in order that the significance might be fully understood. Old Ivy had said that the cows were all that stood between them and the fate of others who had, through misfortune, accepted the title despised by the quality.

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

At this thought the pretty, drooping head was lifted defiantly. No!

she would not go down just yet, for one last motive remained. While she was at the store an hour before to buy a few necessary articles of food with the pitiful supply of money she had found in an old teapot on the kitchen shelf, a wonderful thing had occurred. Tod Greeley, weighing out some tea, remarked casually:

"I reckon, now I think o' it, Miss Cyn, there's a letter come for you.

One for you and one for Mr. Morley."

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

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