n his
heart was amazed at always finding her on the floor in a lake of lather,
crooning as she scrubbed.

"Martha," he said once, "you're a bird. I wish I'd met you when _I_ was
a baby."

And she answered:

"Don't be thrackin' mud into the study." And then, "Mister Cotter," she
said, "if ye have a heart in your body, put it into the furnace flue. It
was always a bad egg for drawin', and betimes the snow will lie six feet
deep in the valley."

"I'll put my heart and soul in that flue, Martha, for your sake, and
we'll put it to the ordeal by fire. But who's to feed the furnace?"

"Who's to feed the furnace!" she put back her head and laughed. "Who but
love, young man? Love will feed the furnace, press the trousers, and
clean the boots. There will be no one to care for him but me. Mind
that. No one but old Martha. Twenty year I've shed be the knowledge.
It's no mere woman ye behold, Mister Cotter, 't is an army!"

"By Jove," he said, "I believe you."

And he passed out with his measuring-stick into the bright sunlight. And
there stood, drawing deep breaths of the racy September air, and filling
his eyes almost to overflowing with the magic beauty of the valley.

It spread away southward from the base of the cliff upon which he stood,
melting at last into blue distance; an open valley studded with groups
of astounding trees which were all scarlet and gold. Mountains,
deep-green, purple, pale-violet, framed the valley, and through its
midst was flung a bright blue necklace of long lakes and serpentine
rivers. In the nearest and largest lake, towering castles of white cloud
came continuously and went. Very far off, browsing among lily pads, Mr.
Cotter could see a cow moose and her calf. And, high over his head,
there passed presently a string of black duck. He could hear the strong
beating of their wings.

Mr. Cotter was a practical man.

"Why the hell did he do it?" he mused. "He might have married, and
wanted a real house in this paradise, and told me to go as far as I
liked. He'd have asked us all up to stay--and now, my God! all it can
ever be is a cage for a jail-bird."

When at last the cottage was in exquisite order, old Martha sent the
others away and stayed on alone. In her room she had an elaborate
calendar. To each day was tacked the name of its patron saint.

The old woman was religious, but every night she drew her pencil through
the name of a saint, and the days passed, and the Poor Boy's term in