loved."

"I reckon I will, Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

Then she was gone as she had come. Crothers' touch had only alarmed
her; it had not soiled her.

"Thank God!" murmured the little doctor; "the woman in the child
shielded her from all but physical shock! And what a quaint philosophy
for a girl to evolve."

That evening as Marcia Lowe stood before her little mirror in the
lean-to, braiding her long smooth hair, she talked a bit for comfort's
sake.

"It's plain luxury to lie in my own bed again," she said, "the bench in
the other room can never be made anything but a martyr's cot." Then
she glanced up and faced her own smiling image with the braids twisted
about the head.

"Oh!" she faltered, falling back, "oh! Uncle Theodore!" For there,
smiling at her with the slow, lingering smile, the face of Cynthia
seemed to shine out by the flickering candlelight, instead of her own!

The long dressing-gown gave a childish setting to the little doctor's
form, the coronet braids; the happy, smiling face was young and
wonderfully, strikingly like Cynthia's.

"They always said I was so like Uncle Theodore! I've got Cynthia to
her father by way of--me!"

Then the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady did a most unaccountable thing--she
fairly pranced about the room.

"I've found it!" she sang; "without resurrecting old Miss Susie May
Lanley! What's a stupid marriage certificate compared to God's plain
handwriting? I can keep my secret now, Uncle Theodore, until the right
time. It was so good of you, dear, to give me proof."

CHAPTER XV

Seven years passed, leaving their traces, and upon a certain afternoon
in August Levi Markham and Matilda sat on the piazza of the Bretherton
home and awaited the arrival of Mrs. Olive Treadwell.

Old Bob, Sandy's collie, lay at Levi's feet. Bob was fat and full of
years; he wore a heavily studded collar with perfect dignity and had,
apparently, quite forgotten lean days and promiscuous kicks. Levi
could now shuffle his feet with impunity. Bob never suspected ulterior
motives and the sight of a broom or club had lost all terrors for him.

Markham did not look any older than he looked seven years ago. Indeed,
his interest in Sandy Morley, his pride in that young man's
achievement, and Sandy's absolute love and loyalty to his benefactor,
had done much to relieve Markham of years instead of adding them to
him. Matilda had not fared so well. She looked like fragile ware, but
she