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e went inside finally and sat down upon the settle by the hearth and, with bowed head, gave himself up to memory. An hour passed and then a step outside roused him, but he did not turn. "Sir, I reckon you be the boss of the new factory. I was a-going down to The Forge to seek you out and ask for work, but Tansey Moore, down to the store, 'lowed that 'twas you who had passed up this-er-way. If you be the boss could you----" But he got no further. Sandy could not run the risk of another clash of words. "Father!" he said, standing up and stretching his arms out pitifully to Martin. "Father!" Morley recoiled for an instant and his eyes, old and dim, struggled to see clearly the figure and face before him. But it was not the mortal eyes of the man that saw and knew. It was the _father_ that reached out with unerring instinct to its own! Martin had never had his dreams of what his boy was to become; he was there to accept whatever God in His mercy sent to him. "Sandy! lil' Sandy! My boy!" And then the tottering old frame was gathered in the strong young arms. "Dad, dear old Dad. I've got a right good job for you!" That was all. For a few minutes the clock on the high shelf ticked so loudly that it seemed to fill the room with noise. Neither man spoke, but they clung desperately. Presently a shadow fell across the floor and Sandy turned his head. Old Bob had found his way up from The Forge and panting and wheezing began to sniff around the room. Almost blind, yet guided by that sense we cannot understand, he had sought his own and found them. With a soft cry he crouched close to the two standing by the hearth and whined piteously. Martin aroused and stood upright. "It's--it's Bob!" he cried. "Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob!" Then falteringly: "It's all right, Bob, she won't trouble you now--she's gone for good and all!" That was the only reference to Mary, and Sandy did not tell Martin of little Molly's fate for many a day. CHAPTER XVIII If one can forget the languor of the summer and the fear of the winter, a September day among the hills is an experience to set the heart singing. The fluttering birds in busy preparation for flight, the carpet of Persian colours and the subtle charm of the smell of wood smoke in the air, all combine to arouse tender thoughts and pensive desires. On such a day Cynthia Walden ran down the trail from Stoneledge and kept to the side of The Way where th
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