"So it seems! So it seems!"
Levi was looking at a flaming maple tree outside and thinking of his dead sister.
It was the evening of the day of the letter that Sandy Morley, sitting rigidly in the chair that Lansing Hertford had lounged in, listened to as much of an outline of his future as Levi Markham felt he could comprehend.
"And remember," Markham warned at the end, "I want you to learn how little a hundred dollars is as well as how big! One is as important as the other."
"Yes, sir," Sandy returned with a vague wonder, for he had yet to learn to think in dollars.
"Can you"—Markham considerately paused before putting the next question—"do you feel able to tell me a little more about yourself than I already know? I should like to feel that you trust me."
Sandy was stronger and better for his days in Bretherton and, never having had any great consideration shown him, he looked upon Levi Markham as a veritable God especially upraised for his guidance and protection.
"I want to tell you!" he said in a low, tense voice. Leaning forward until his arms touched the opposite side of the desk, his thin, sensitive face was nearly on a level with Markham's.
"It's—this—er—way."
The shade at the broad window behind Sandy had not been lowered, and a very magnificent black night riddled with stars stood like a shield against which the boyish form and pale face rested. There was a crumbling fire on the hearth, and the lamp on the table was turned low. Markham, listening to the slow, earnest voice, became hypnotized by its quality and pure purpose. He felt the dreariness and hopelessness of the hard childhood, and the hate that Mary Morley had aroused seemed to the listener to be the first vivifying happening. He never took his eyes from Sandy's face from first to last. The years of labour, self-sacrifice and fixed purpose stirred him strangely, and the touch of spirit introduced into the boy's voice when he approached the end found an echo in Markham's heart.