"Why, Dad, Lans had nothing to do with the old misunderstanding. He has really done us a good turn by throwing light on the past."
"He—he laughed!" muttered Martin. "They-all laugh that-er-way. Big things is little to them-all; and little things is—big! Them Hertfords be—no-count! They all sound upperty and look upperty, but they-all is—trash!"
"Come, come, Dad! Lans isn't trash. He's done me more than one good turn."
"I reckon he'll do you a right smart bad one some day, son."
"Dad!"
"Yes, son. Now, why didn't the old general come an' tell us-all 'bout the joke? Why didn't he give us-all a chance to jine in the laugh? Then this lad's father—why didn't he come back to Lost Hollow and find out 'bout—Queenie Walden, as was?"
Martin's voice sank into a whisper, but the words had a terrific effect upon Sandy. So naturally had he accepted the life of The Hollow again, so happily had he permitted his hills to draw close about him, shutting away the noises and interpretations of the big outer world, that the old doubt about Cynthia's poor mother, the loyal outward holding to the story Ann Walden had told of her birth, had escaped him. Now it came thundering through Martin's whisper like a heavy blow.
If that hushed belief were true, then—Sandy could not stand; he sat down upon a fallen tree and stared at his father.
"If that is true, then Cynthia and Treadwell are——" The thought burned itself into the mind and soul of Sandy Morley. No longer could he permit things to drift past him; here, among his hills, vital truths were vital truths and might make or mar the people he was bent upon helping.
"Cold cramp yo', son?" Martin gazed at his boy.