"Whim-whams, 'Tilda! Now what do you mean in plain American? Who's given the boy a blow--a hurt, or whatever you fancy?"

"It's the--the little girl, brother, that Land has run away with."

"Good God, Matilda!"

"Levi, I do wish you would curb your language. You know how I dislike profanity."

"I beg your pardon, 'Tilda."

"While you have been sensing business conditions, brother, I've sensed something else. I've sort of gathered this Cynthia Walden up piece by piece. The old woman who works here gave me a bit; that dear little woman doctor--the aunt of the girl--has told me some of the story; from Martin Morley I've taken a mite. Little by little it has come to me, until I've patched the whole together and I can see real plain and clear, now, the spirit of Lost Hollow that led Sandy out and up and then--escaped to a place he cannot reach! Oh! brother, when one is lonely and old and not over strong, it is so easy to get at the heart of a thing for them one loves."

Matilda was crying gently into her dainty little handkerchief, and Markham stared at her, speechless and helpless.

"There! there! 'Tilda," was all he could think to say, but his tone was loving beyond description.

"She's the girl whose face haunted that picture of the dogwood flowers, brother. She's the girl he wrote to just once, you remember, that time when we stopped in New York on our way from here to Bretherton. I guess she's called and called to him from these hills ever since he left, and now----"

"Well, 'Tilda?"

"She's gone away and the call is--stilled."

Markham sat down again before the fire and buried his head in his hands. Quietly the old brother and sister sat for a full half hour, then Levi got up.

"Good-night, sister," he said.

"Good-night, brother."

That was all. They knew that they were unable to reach the hurt that Sandy had received.

CHAPTER XXV

But Matilda Markham could not sit down under her weight of conviction in protracted silence. The winter at last gripped The Hollow, and doors and windows were closed against the cold and storm. Markham, Martin, and Sandy were always away together much of the day, but Matilda sat by her fire, chatted a little with Sally, revelled in Marcia Lowe's frequent calls, and managed to weave a tender story from all she heard. She knitted her endless rainbow scarfs and gave them to the mountain women who received them in stolid amazement and doted upon them in secret. Once Matilda did a very daring and tremendous thing.

She wrote to Olive Treadwell and asked some pointed and vital questions about Lansing's wife!

Having sent the letter away impulsively, the poor little lady had a week of real torture. Daily she walked to the post-office, when no one was watching, and caused Tod Greeley much amusement by her nervous anxiety.

"Meaning no offence," he confided to Marcia Lowe, "and respecting her age and gray hairs, I reckon the old miss is in love. It comes late to some folks," he sighed pathetically, "and it comes right hard when it strikes past the time limit, but nothing but love takes it out of folks like what this old miss is suffering."

At last the answer came and Matilda read it with the door of her bedroom bolted and the washstand barricading it as well.

Olive Treadwell wrote:

I'm mighty glad to say something about this affair to some one who can understand me. Imagine my feelings when, out of the blue, as one might say, Lans brought this girl home and said, "I'm going to leave her with you, Aunt Olive, until I can see my way clear. I am brother to her and she is sister to me until--the way's made plain." That was all and then Lans betook himself to his old quarters and began to work. He's taken a position on the _Boston Beacon_ and calls, actually _calls_, on his wife evenings or takes her and me out to theatres and dinners. I'm supposed to be training this young woman, for what, heaven only knows!

but I have my hands full. Lans was always erratic and poetic, but this is beyond my comprehension, He has had affairs of the heart, of course, but this is different. The girl is the strangest creature I ever saw; she is uncanny. After I got her into proper clothing I saw she had beauty and charm of a certain kind. She takes to ways and expressions mighty quick, and she is the sweet appealing kind that attracts even while one disapproves. I confess I am utterly dumb-founded and if you can throw any light on this matter, pray do so. The girl seems to me to be half here and half somewhere else; she isn't unhappy, and she seems to adore Lans in a detached and pretty childish way, but why did he marry her and why should he, having married her, regard her in this platonic fashion?

Of course Matilda could not answer these questions but she cried over the letter a great deal and brooded over Sandy with all the motherhood that nature had not legitimately utilized. And then, one night, Sandy came to her quite simply and directly and claimed, in his great suffering need, what she alone had to give.

It was the week before Christmas. The cabin was gay and festive, for Marcia Lowe, in a lavishness of good cheer, had decorated everything she could command beginning with the little chapel and ending with the post-office. The County Club sat now 'neath an arbour of greens, and the lowliest cabin had its spray of pine or holly.

Martin and Levi were bent over a backgammon board in Sandy's study.

Markham had undertaken to correct Morley's neglected education as to games; and Martin had, after the first week, so outstripped his instructor that Levi was put upon his mettle and every victory he wrenched now from Martin gave him a glow of pride he was not slow to exhibit. Seeing the two men engrossed, Sandy stole to Matilda Markham's little sitting-room and there found the dear lady asleep before the fire, her thin white hands sunk in a mass of beautiful wools. He stood and looked at the quiet, peaceful old face; he recalled, one by one, her kindnesses to him, her growing pride and love for him, and presently his eyes grew misty. The frail creature before him became touched by the magic of his gratitude and need, the most vital and mighty factor in his life. She, in this hour of his hidden craving, was the only one to whom he could turn, and right well he knew that she would stand by him.

Suddenly Matilda Markham opened her eyes and looked directly into Sandy's. It may have been that some dream had prepared her, God may have spoken to her in vision; however that may be she said gently:

"Son, you need me? Come, tell me all about it."

Quite naturally Sandy sat down at her feet and looked frankly into the dear, old face.

"I am going to ask you to do a great thing for me," he said; "I must ask you to do it without my explaining things to you to any extent--I want you to do it as a mother might for her son--trusting me if you can."

"Dear boy, I think I can promise to do what you ask."

Then the thin hands found their way to the bent head, and as they touched the thick, dark hair a thrill shot to the woman's very heart.

"Mother!" Sandy seemed inspired to meet her soul's longing. "Mother!"

"Son, go on. I am waiting."

"It--it is about the girl--Lansing Treadwell married."

"Yes."

"I must know how things are with her. Our mountain people can be so lonely and homesick away from the hills. At times nothing, nothing can take the place of the yearning. I--I can forget everything that has even been, if I know she is right happy and content--but I must know!"

A fierceness struck through the low-spoken words. "The doubt is--is killing me."

"Shall I go now, son, or wait until after the holidays?"

"Could you go now--and alone?"

"I can manage Levi, son. Travelling is real easy these days. It will take management, but I can get what I want."

"You would understand if you saw her."

Sandy's voice trailed off forgetful of the woman at whose knees he knelt.

"She can smile and make right merry, but you would know and understand.

She is such a pretty, sweet thing, but she has the iron of the hills in her. She must"--again Sandy's voice shook with passion,--"she must have happiness! If--if the noise and confusion of the city have distracted her she must come back to the mountains. Lans will agree to this--I do not doubt him! She must not--kill herself--you will know when you see her. You must come back and tell me--you will?"

"I will, son."

Matilda yearned to show him Olive Treadwell's letter, but something kept her from doing it. She wanted to do what she could for Sandy in her own way, and suddenly she felt herself a giant of strength and purpose.