"Mr. Martin Morley has gone down The Way to see you. He reckons you will give him a job."
At this the man leaned heavily against a pine tree and stared at the girl. Had he heard aright? For months he had believed Martin Morley was dead—long dead!
"Yes, Mr. Morley was just here talking about the new factory up in the mountain."
To hear Cynthia say mountain was to love the high places better all the days of your life. So lingeringly and tenderly did the soft voice deal with the vowels and consonants that they suggested all the beauty and strength of the hills. The man opposite closed his eyes from sheer delight while the word sank into his consciousness and filled the empty places of his heart.
"He'll miss you, I reckon, but could you save a job for him?"
"I can and—will." The man opened his eyes and courageously walked across The Way and stood still, hat in hand, before the girl. He was tall and broad and good to look upon and youth went out to youth cordially and frankly.
"I reckon"—the homely word took the place of the Yankee "guess" naturally, "I reckon you are—Miss Cynthia Walden?"
"Yes." Cynthia's eyes shone. "Who—told you?"
"I heard about you." This was very lame, but it answered.
"And you—sir?"