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