CHAPTER VIII
The warm sun of September brought a faint tinge to Sandy's hollow cheeks. After Matilda's "There!" the boy had leaned his head back on the pillow of his couch and closed his eyes. Bob, sleek and well-conditioned, lay at his feet, starting now and then as he dreamed of other days rich in kicks and blows, and lean as to platters of nourishing food.
"Sleeping?" asked Levi, coming on the porch with the mail and whispering to his sister.
"I shouldn't wonder."
"He looks——" But Matilda shook her head at Levi and cut the words short. To express an opinion about Sandy's appearance at that moment would not do—it were best passed over lightly. Levi took a chair, drew it up close to his sister, and left Sandy and Bob free to compare, in dreams, the Then and Now of Life.
"It was no use," Markham whispered. "I might just as well have let the letter go that day he"—Levi nodded toward Sandy—"made his entrance on the scene. They won't accept my terms. I wish now I had let them know how I felt when my blood was up."
"Life's too short for that, brother. Up or down, blood hampers when it's hot. Common sense is always best. What does the letter say?"
"The Treadwell woman won't lose her hold on Lansing: not even for four years!"
Matilda's eyes dropped and she kept silent.