And indeed a ghost of the grim past did confront him. He saw himself as he once was ere his Inheritance was downed forever. He, too, had wanted to break away; get out to the free chance and the new hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was this--er--way. In them days us-all and the Hertfords was equals. The plantation lying off to the east of the old Hertford home place belonged to us-all"--many and many were the quarts of berries and bushels of nuts Sandy had gathered from there!--"but it slipped away--it's all gone years past. My grandfather and Lansing Hertford was close friends--none closer. They fought and loved side by side till Hertford--he got some kind of government order to go to furrin'

parts a mighty distance from Lost Hollow. Some time after he went my grandfather followed on a pleasure trip--a pleasure trip, Sandy, think of that! He went away for pleasure! His pockets full of money and him right well fixed! On his travels he stopped and called on Hertford in them furrin' parts and Hertford he gave to grandfather a mighty precious bottle of stuff to bring back home to a big merchant down Lynchburg way. What happened the Lord only knows, Sandy, but when the merchant opened the bottle there wasn't nothing but water in it! No one ever spoke out in grandfather's day--they dassent. He was a mighty proud and upperty man, but a whisper and a nudge can do the work, and little by little grandfather was pushed down and out. In my father's time they spoke louder--they don' said how grandfather had sold the precious stuff before he came back; Lord, Sandy, I leave it to you, son, would he have come if he had done that low-down, mean trick?"

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

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

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

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

"I am--going to succeed!"

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

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

Martin rose hurriedly and dropped the whip in the underbrush.

"Come on home, son!"

But Sandy did not move.

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

The child was master of the man!

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

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

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

"It's good-bye, Dad?"

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

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

"Yes, Dad. Will you come?"

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

"No! God knows they do belong to me and I'm too old, too broken. The curse will get the best of you, boy, and you'll come trailing home.

I'll be here--then! But----" And now Martin came closer and held him by the thin, trembling shoulders.

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

"What?" he asked, hoarsely.

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

"The baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We can't fight them, Sandy!"

The poor legacy of hatred, wrong, loyalty, and despair was all that Martin Morley had to offer his boy as a weapon in the coming fight.

The uselessness and weakness of it struck Sandy even then as he stood on the threshold of the new life. What did it matter? But it was the small thing, the old past that made up the shabby present of The Hollow. He was going to leave everything--even the old grudge--already the wider thought called him and gave a touch of daring to his laugh.

"Good-bye, Dad!"

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

"I--I want to tell you 'bout--yo' mother, Sandy--and me! No one ain't all bad; she was all good and yo' must lay hold o' the good. It will help if yo' can cling fast enough."

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

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

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

"Good-bye--dear old Dad!"