CHAPTER IX


In January, however, he came home one noon to find her hatted and
wrapped to go.

"Oh, Mart--it's Daddy!" she said. "He's ill--I've got to see him!
He's awfully ill."

"Telegram?" asked Martin, not particularly pleased, but not
unsympathetic either.

For answer she gave him the yellow paper that was wet with her
tears. "Dad ill," he read. "Don't worry. Come if you can. Alix."

"I'll bet it's a put-up job between you and Alix--" Martin said in
indulgent suspicion.

Her indignant glance sobered him; he hastily arranged money
matters, and that night she got off the train in the dark wetness
of the valley, and was met by a rush of cool and fragrant air. It
was too late to see the mountain, lights were twinkling everywhere
in the dark trees. Cherry got a driver, rattled and jerked up to
the house in a surrey, and jumped out, her heart almost
suffocating her.

Alix came flying to the door, the old lamplight and the odour of
wood smoke poured through. There was no need for words; they burst