"I'm not with you," he cried, stammering and stumbling over the hasty words. "What you say can't be true. A boy who lives here has got his chance. I bet you anything you like he'll make something of it. Stunted! narrow! He needn't be! Why, if the boy is only strong enough to climb these hills and look about him, he'll educate himself instinctively. Not in book lore, of course, but book lore isn't all, nor even much. Learning from Nature is like learning at your mother's knee, you can't forget it." He caught his breath uncomfortably, and then ran headlong on, as though he were ashamed of being ashamed to speak. "Both make one feel—why, more, they make one know—that there's a God in the machine somewhere."
His companion had moved away. His limp showed very perceptibly at that moment. The western windows of Glune were dull red now, flushing and scintillating like rubies in a curious setting.
Cummings stood still for a moment, obviously discomforted, his face brick-red from the rare effort of wrestling with unaccustomed thoughts. Then he ran on lightly for a yard or two, and joined his companion.
"Rotten luck, the whole thing," he said good-naturedly. "Let's stop at the inn at Bruchill, and drink the poor little chap's health as we pass, eh? I'm sick to death of all this arguing."
Brand raised his eyebrows. His face was livid, except where an angry smear of red had broken out below the cheek-bone.
"Oh—were you arguing?" he asked.
CHAPTER II
"Suffering of body and soul is civil war."—MAUD STEPNEY RAWSON.
Thrown upon his own resources practically from four years old, Richard Farquharson at ten was older than many boys of his age. His memories grouped themselves into scenes, one was his nightmare.
That dreadful day! Did he really remember it, I wonder, or was it merely a mental landmark in that valley of vision to which his old nurse had taught him the way of escape from the harshness and austerities of his life at Glune?