It was the night of that day when, before the fire in the little sitting-room devoted to the Markhams' use, Levi sought to ease his sister's mind concerning Sandy. "The boy was up against it with Crothers," he explained, "and making no outcry. You know Sandy's way. He wouldn't confide in us about that poor little sister of his--he thought it wasn't in the bargain. He meant to fight this big bully in his own fashion without calling on me, but I've taken a hand in the game and put Crothers wise as to principles. I may have to get a few knocks before I am done, but Sandy won't be the buffer. I guess the boy will pick up from now on. He's nervy and stronger than he looks." Matilda sat in her low, broad rocker. Her dressing gown of pale violet enshrouded her tiny figure like the soft petals of a flower; her faded eyes and gentle face were lowered, and her gaze fixed upon the burning logs. "Brother," she said tenderly and wistfully; "the boy has had a mortal hurt. This evil man has not dealt it, and neither you nor I can cure it. It has not killed his mind and spirit, but it's killed the heart of the lad." Levi Markham got up and stood with his back to the fire. He was going to be enlightened--he knew that--but in man fashion he pushed the inevitable from him. "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."