"Aunt Olive has told me they were very uncongenial." A flush rose to the young fellow's face. A pride, not altogether unworthy, rang in the words and for the first time Markham detected a resemblance to the father in the close-shut lips.
"I do not wish to say anything against your father that is avoidable, but for your own safety and my own protection I realize that you and I must be quite open with each other."
"Yes, uncle."
"Your mother died more of a broken heart than of anything else."
The boy set his jaw.
"I know father loved life and took it as it came," he said.
A brief silence rested between the two, then Markham went on:
"Naturally you inherit from both your parents. To a certain extent, certainly, a man, under God, is master of his life and I want to give you the best possible choice that lies in my power, not only for your own sake and mine, but for your mother's and—yes! your father's!"
"Thank you, Uncle Levi."
And now the boy's eyes were raised once more. They swept the room, Markham's face, and then travelled to the broad acres in rich cultivation as far as one could see.