The old living-room of the cabin had been more leniently dealt with. Sandy's passion for windows had been indulged, but its furnishings were designed for comfort without shock to Martin's habits. The kitchen in the lean-to, also windowed to the limit of space, had been given over to the imagination—nothing else could possibly have accounted for it—of Marcia Lowe. Shining rows of things never dreamed of in The Hollow hung on the walls or graced the shelves. The future might prove them, but the present wreathed them in the charm of mystery. The women came and looked upon them in silent wonder and talked of them afterward in hushed voices. A good-sized range, also, stood where once the dirty hearth was the only shrine to which the family food was intrusted during preparation. Even Sandy approached this innovation with ingrained reluctance, but Marcia Lowe was overcoming his timidity and Cynthia had already conquered its mysteries and was instructing Martin.
The greatest change on the Morley place, however, was the one-time shed bedroom of Sandy. The first time Sandy entered the crumbling shanty such a wave of bitterness and depression engulfed him that he realized he must either reclaim it or it would triumph over him. To tear it down would not have solved the problem; its absence would have been a more final acknowledgment of his defeat. The years of fear, loneliness, and want were ever to be vital realities of his life; the shed was the setting of his childish agony and spiritual growth—oh, that was it! He must not stamp the poor shell from sight; he must redeem it as his patient suffering had redeemed him. He must make it a place to which those he loved, those who needed him, might come knowing that welcome and understanding awaited them.
It seemed a miracle to see the dusty, crumbling place evolve into that bright study with its big, open fireplace, outside chimney, and the sacred window-seat. Overhead were two small bedrooms, opening into each other—Martin's and Sandy's. Plain, severe rooms they were; rooms into which the morning sun shone and into which the setting sun glowed when nature smiled. On the shingle roof the rain pattered musically, and no winter cold could conquer the heat which a certain drum stove in Martin's room managed to create and diffuse. On Martin's stand beside his narrow bed a lamp stood and near it a Bible. Martin had learned again to pray and often Sandy read the sacred book to him respecting always the fiction as to poor eyes and ignoring the illiteracy which the old man bitterly and secretly deplored.
At last Cynthia entered the study after a minute inspection of the house. The breakfast dishes were washed and put away; Martin was neat and orderly. His bed had been made and Sandy's was untouched.
"Still away!" whispered the girl and sank upon the window-seat while a thrill of pleasure brought the slow smile to the sensitive lips.
"Oh, the pretty day!" Then a desire to set the place in perfect order for Sandy's possibly near-return caused her to spring up and dart quickly from place to place, straightening a picture here, flicking the dust off the shelves and chairs, and lastly attacking the cluttered desk which had not been touched since the master went away.
Sandy was not orderly by instinct. Dirt distressed him, but superficial chaos seemed never to disturb him. He could lay his hand on whatever he wanted amid the layers of papers, books, and writing material.
"It's right Sandyish," murmured Cynthia; "I wonder if he will—mind?" Never before had she thought of arranging the desk. Carefully, almost breathlessly, she piled some magazines in one place; some papers in another. The pens and pencils were stuck together in the yawning mouth of a particularly fierce silver gargoyle who evidently had been created to devour such articles, and then—at the bottom of the mass Cynthia came upon a book which had been quite hidden from sight. It was an open book; a book marked at a certain place. There was a strange familiarity about the book which caused the girl to take it up with trembling surprise. The blue and gold cover recalled emotions long since forgotten. How could she know that Sandy had scoured many a Boston book store for just that edition, causing the proprietors much annoyance and trouble?
"Pilgrim's Progress!"
Then backing to the window-seat, Cynthia sat down and feasted her eyes first upon the cover, then upon the words marked by an illuminating pencil: