could have a week ago, for
the need is past now. I have only kept it to myself because it has
never seemed right that I should ask more of you than you offered to
give--and this was my affair--mine alone."

"I see!" muttered Markham, and his jaw set, not with doubt of Sandy,
but with detestation of the woman who earlier in the day had driven him
to attack this boy's sacred privilege of independence and privacy.

"It began, sir, when I was in the midst of class work in June. I was
having a particularly good time, you may remember, when, one night, a
messenger came to my rooms and said some one wanted to see me near the
gate of the Square. It was a girl, sir, though she looked a woman; a
poor, sad, sick creature from my home--my half sister, Molly! I did
not know her at first. She was right little and pretty when I last saw
her, but cruelty and want had turned her into----"

Levi's eyes were riveted on the still, white face of the speaker, and
his heart hurt him for very pity. He could not let the boy say the
word.

"And she--what did she want?" he asked so sternly that Sandy, even with
his reverence for Markham, took up arms in his sister's defence.

"Don't judge her harshly, sir; you do not know our hills. Molly was a
mighty weak little girl, and when temptation came to her, she hadn't
strength to resist, and they who should have defended her--sold her! I
was not there, so I cannot be hard upon her, though she thought I meant
to be at first. You see I was so shocked and surprised, and amid all
the happenings I had almost forgotten. She threatened me, sir. It was
right pitiful. She said every one was dead--her mother; our
father----" Sandy's voice faltered--"she was alone. She hadn't
forgotten her old ways either. You remember that I told you how as a
little girl she had threatened the--the treasure under the rock beyond
the Branch?" Markham nodded.

"Well--she threatened the treasure of to-day. She was for finding you
out and begging--so--well, I bought her off! for I would not have you
haggled and be made to repent your helping of me. I have kept her,
sir, in a little room in a corner of Boston all summer. It was a neat
and comfortable place, with a tree at the window. After a time she
trusted me! At first it was hard for her to keep--well!--I reckon when
one let's go as poor Molly did--it is right difficult to hold on long
to a new and safer course. But--she died four days ago! She was
a