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"Why in thunder!" Sandy thought as he and Martin worked with the men over at the factory; "why in thunder doesn't he go home and stand by?" But Lans did not go away, and more than Sandy grew restive. Martin had taken a deep dislike to the visitor and was only held in check by Sandy's reasoning and demands. "Why, Dad, Lans had nothing to do with the old misunderstanding.
He actually remembered my grandfather and what do you think, Morley" Lans had turned his back upon Martin, whose fixed stare and rigid pose disturbed him "the old codger actually told me half of a story the other half of which Aunt Olive and I have often laughed over. Oddly enough it is a new and another connecting link between you and me. We're throw-backs, old fellow!
He knew that Treadwell had not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was now manager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had gone to look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm had naturally detained him. The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised and amused Sandy.
"I'm right sure," she faltered, "that Lans could understand." "Do you think so? Oh! I have been so tortured. He told me to come to him if I needed him and God knows I need him now but I wanted most of all not to hurt him or exact too much from his goodness. You see " a palpitating pause followed.
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.
We-all want to do something big and fine. Why, every time I look at him, Mr. Lans, I feel like I must show him how glad I am he well, he didn't swallow the old Sandy whole!" Treadwell laughed delightedly. "He's mighty good to get near to when you feel troubled," Cynthia added; "and, too, you feel like you wanted to keep him from hurting himself!" "How well you put it!"
Well dressed, carrying a modern suitcase, and whistling, gayly came the stranger. At the moment of recognition Sandy felt a cold aloofness overpower him. He spoke, as if to convince a doubting listener: "I I reckon that is Lans Treadwell! Treadwell, of all people!" But Sandy pulled himself together and went to greet his visitor with characteristic warmth and cordiality.
Does he always retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his his evening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!" Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his own thoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him. "I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactly as he chooses. You must not take offence." "Certainly not.
Only I do not want to feel I drive him away or deprive you of his companionship. Ever since I told the joke about that bottle of perfumery he seems to avoid me." "Father hasn't a sense of humour," Sandy ventured, striving to keep the bitterness of resentment from his voice. "The devil!" ejaculated Lans. "That log spits like a hag. A spark fell straight on my ankle."
Again the staggering doubt was like a weapon for Sandy's use, but he hesitated still. "I I wonder if you know what you have done?" he groaned again. "When you talk like that, Sand," Lans whispered, his face softening, "I don't! And I implore you to help me." "You don't know our South, our Hollow," Sandy went on, with a pitiful tone in his unsteady voice. "It takes us so long to wake up!
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