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: