"My affair—is different. You know about it—partially?"
"I've heard something. It was none of my business." A sternness crept into Sandy's voice which Treadwell entirely misunderstood.
"Well, because it was possible for me to come to you; because of all my friends, you seemed in this hour of trouble, the only one I could come to, I want you to make it your business, Sand."
The low-pitched, pleading voice awoke sympathy. It was that tone and manner which had caused people to straighten out the snarls of Lans Treadwell's life from babyhood up. There was capitulation. It was as if he had said: "I deserve no pity, no comfort, but—give them to me!" It awoke all the spontaneous desire for his happiness in every tender-hearted person who knew and liked him.
"I'm not indifferent, Lans. I only meant that in your friendship and mine there have always been reservations. You took me up because of your generous friendliness; you helped me mightily. I never felt the slightest inclination to penetrate into your private life, and my own was of such a nature that I was obliged to live it alone. My years away from the mountains were years of preparation to come back. Every hand held out to me was but a power to help me on my course. I have never—except recently with the Markhams—ever taken anything personally. I have always recognized that I was called to serve my people; I have been grateful, but I have never appropriated."
Treadwell looked hard at the fine, dark face touched now to vivid beauty by the rich glow of the fire.
"And I know few fellows who have won out as you have," he said admiringly. "You have that in you, about you, that attracts and compels. People trust you, like you—need you when a pinch comes."
"Thank you, Lans."
"And God knows I want you, need you, now!"
Sandy put out his hand, Treadwell gripped it, then both leaned back in their chairs and the story came, set to the wild strains of the mountain storm.