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“Do ye remember a house ye took one winter, while your poor father was tearin’ out the innerds of his own?”

“On Park Avenue and–“

“The same,” said Martha. “The northwest corner. Ye were my tenants that winter…. Yes, deary, I am a rich old woman. And, between you and me, your poor father wanted that house the worst way, and me agents stuck him good and plenty. There’s a balance comin’ to ye, Miss Joy. ‘Tis what they call conscience money, and ’twill buy ye warm clothes, and maybe a bit jool to go at your throat.”

“Martha–Martha, what makes you so good to me?”

“Have ye not said ye never believed that me Poor Boy did what they said he did?”

“Is that the only reason?”

“There’s another,” said Martha. “For in all the world, next to his, ye’ve the swatest face and way with yez.”

The old woman’s emotions rose, and her brogue became heavier and heavier upon her, until her words lost all semblance of meaning. And Miss Joy, warm and well fed, leaned back in her deep chair and listened and tried to understand, and looked into Martha’s face with eyes that were dark and misty with tenderness.

And she slept that night and late into the next morning, without stirring. And when she waked there was already a little flicker of color in her pale face.

VII

“Well, Martha,” said the Poor Boy, when he had kissed her and welcomed her back, “did you find some one to help you?”

“She’s a plain old thing,” said Martha, “but honest and with good references. Would ye care to see her for yourself?”

“Good God, no,” said the Poor Boy. “As long as I live I don’t want to see any one but you. Tell her, will you? See that she understands. Tell her–gently, so as not to hurt her feelings, but firmly, that she has only to show herself to be dismissed. The day I see her–she goes.”

“She’ll not thank you,” said old Martha. “Ye may safely leave that to me.”

“And if she isn’t a real help to you, Martha, she goes. Another thing, I’d rather she didn’t talk very loud or sing, if she can help it. I don’t want to know that she’s here.”

To Martha’s discerning and suspicious eyes the Poor Boy seemed nervous, ill at ease, and eager to be off somewhere. He was dressed for deep snow-going, and kept swinging his mittens by the wrists and beating them together. He stood much on one foot and much on the other.

“What’s vexing you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve found something off here,” he waved toward the valley, “that amuses me–just a silly game, Martha, that goes on in my head. The minute I get out of sight of the house it begins. It’s done it every day since you left.”

“What kind of a game will that be?”

“It’s just making believe,” he said with a certain embarrassment, “pretending things–and it makes me forget other things. I’ll be back by dark.”

He literally bolted, and could be heard saying sharp things to the straps of his skis, which had become stiffened with the cold.

Old Martha stood for a while staring at the door which he had closed behind him. She wondered if by any possible chance his mind was beginning to go. To relieve her own she hurried back to Joy in the kitchen, and began a conversation that had not flagged by tea-time.

The Poor Boy had found a long diagonal by which he could descend from the top of the cliff to the bottom in one swift silent slide. More than half-way down there was a dangerous turn, but he had learned to ski at St. Moritz when he was little, and never thought of the danger at all. The chief thing, turn or no turn, was to get to the bottom of the cliff as quickly as possible. Everything that was bitter and tragic in his life ended there, in an open glade among towering white pines.