"The Slash¹" was the name given to a piece of partially² cleared land lying between the mill-pond and Sandy McLachlan's clearing. The timber on it had been cut down and it had grown up in a wild luxuriance of underbrush and berry bushes. The latter had from time to time been cleared away in patches, and here and there between the fallen tree-trunks were stretches of green grass, where the wild strawberries grew. The Slash was the most delightful³ place in which to go roaming at large and give oneself up to a buccaneer life. On schooldays, though the Gordons passed through it morning and afternoon, there was little opportunity to linger over its treasures. But the memory of its cool, flowery glades⁴, its sunny uplands, its wealth of berries or wild grapes or hazel-nuts as the season of each came round, always beckoned⁵ the children on holidays. The Gordon boys had long used it as a playground. Here they could indulge in games of wild Indians and pirates, setting fire to the brush-wood, cutting down trees, and engaging in such other escapades as were not sufficiently⁶ genteel to be carried on under their aunt's eye. So on holidays thither⁷ they always repaired, either with the excuse of accompanying Charles Stuart to the mill, or carrying a pail or a fishing-rod to give the proper coloring to their departure.  
But on this first summer holiday John and Charles Stuart found themselves, upon setting out, hampered⁸ by a much worse encumbrance⁹ than a berry-pail.
 
"Lizzie Gordon!" said her brother sternly, "you ain't comin'."
 
"I am so!" declared Elizabeth, secure in permission from the powers at home. "Aunt said I could."
 
John looked at Charles Stuart, and Charles Stuart winked¹⁰ at John and nodded towards the opposite edge of the pond. Elizabeth knew only too well that those significant glances meant, "We'll run away from her and hide as soon as we're into The Slash."
 
"No, you can't then," she cried triumphantly¹¹, just as though they had spoken. "I can beat you at running, Charles Stuart MacAllister."
 
This was a fact Charles Stuart could not contradict. Elizabeth was the wind itself for speed, and many a time he and John had tried in vain to leave her behind. But her brother knew a manoeuvre¹³ that always brought capitulation from the enemy. He turned away and walked for some paces at Charles Stuart's side, then glanced back at Elizabeth resolutely¹⁴ following.
 
"Aw, you're a nice one," he exclaimed, "followin' boys when they're goin' swimmin'!"
 
Elizabeth stopped motionless in the pathway. One might bear slights and indignities¹⁵, even positive opposition¹⁶, but the insinuation that one was vulgar enough to go swimming at all, much more with boys, was an insult no human being could stand. She turned away slowly, and, as the two inexorable figures went on down the willow¹⁷ path into the ravine, she dropped upon the earth and burst into despairing sobs¹⁸. To be left so cruelly was bad enough, but what hurt most was John's horrible innuendo¹⁹. It fairly scorched²⁰ Elizabeth's soul.
 
She was lying prone²¹ upon the clover-starred grass, weeping bitterly, when she was aroused by a rustle²² in the willows²³. A face was looking through the green tangle²⁴.
 
"Aw, hurrah²⁵, Lizzie," Charles Stuart was saying, "come on. We're only in fun. We ain't goin' swimmin' at all."
 
"I won't," wailed²⁶ Elizabeth. "John doesn't want me; he never does, and I'm going right back home."
 
Through her vanishing tears she had seen John approaching, and had suddenly became conscious of the fact that if she returned home weeping she would be questioned and matters might not be so comfortable for John. That the young man recognized the danger himself was evident, for he added his olive branch to Charles Stuart's. "Hurrah, Lizzie. Don't be such a baby. Come along. We can't wait."
 
But Elizabeth was a woman to the very tips of her long, tapering²⁷ fingers, and finding herself in a position of power was not going to capitulate at once. It was delightful to be coaxed²⁸, and by the boys, too. So she merely sat up and, gazing back up the lane, sighed in a hopeless way and said, "You don't want me, I know you don't, I might as well go back."
 
"Come on, you silly," cried John, now thoroughly²⁹ alarmed. "Come on now. Mind you, we won't wait. Hurrah, Charles Stuart, and she can stay if she likes."
 
They started down the ravine again; and, seeing that her air of grieved dignity was liable to be lost in the willows, Elizabeth got to her feet and went scrambling³⁰ after them.
 
Down at the bottom of the hollow, where the little stream widened into a lazy brown pond, lay Mr. MacAllister's saw-mill. It ran for only a few months in the spring and early summer and was now closed. Only, away down the valley where the road wound into the lumber³¹ yard, the banging of boards told that someone was preparing to haul away a load.
 
None of The Dale children ever passed the mill without a visit, and of course Charles Stuart always explored it all with a fine air of proprietorship³². So they scrambled³³ over the silent place with its sweet smell of running water and fresh sawdust. They beat a clamorous³⁴ tattoo³⁵ upon the big circular saw, they went down to the lower regions and explored the dark hole where the big water-wheel hung motionless, with only the drip, drip of water from the flume above. They rode on the little car that brought the logs up from the pond, and in as many ways as possible risked life and limb as boys must ever do.
 
In all these hazardous³⁶ ventures Elizabeth joined. She was desperately³⁷ frightened, but knew she must win her spurs at the outset or run the awful risk of being left behind even yet. Her conduct proved satisfactory, and by the time they reached the other side of the pond, and had climbed the steep bank, clinging to the bracken and dog-wood, friendly relations had been once more established. When the boys had once got over the disgrace of feeling that a girl was tagging after them, and took Elizabeth on her own merits, these three generally got on very amicably³⁸. She was often a great nuisance, but on the whole they got as much fun as trouble from her panics over snakes and field-mice, and, when out of sight of The Dale, they voted her as good a fellow as the rest.
 
So away they went over The Slash, tearing through underbrush, and pausing occasionally to glance over the patches of grass for strawberries. They soon decided³⁹ that there were so many they could soon fill their pails, and John suggested they sit down and eat the lunch Charles Stuart had brought, for he was sure it must be dinner-time by the look of the sun.
 
Mother MacAllister, with a motherly thought for the Gordons, had put up a substantial repast of bread and pork and generous wedges of pie and a pile of cookies big enough to make glad the heart of any boy. This, supplemented by some thick slices of bread and butter which John had begged from Sarah Emily, made a great feast. They grew very merry over it, and when it was finished, up from the bottom of John's pail came a book—the real reason for the berry-picking expedition. Just whether it would be forbidden by their aunt or not, John and Elizabeth had not run the risk of inquiring. It was a tremendously funny book, so funny that the last time they had read a chapter—it was up in the hay-mow on a rainy Saturday—Elizabeth had laughed so loud that they had almost been discovered. John could go off into one of his silent fits of laughter in the same room as Aunt Margaret and never be discovered, but Elizabeth was prone to scream and dance, and when anything funny seized her Sandy McLachlan's slash was only at a safe distance from home.
 
So, as the book was so very enjoyable, they had decided that it had better be read in private. Elizabeth had some conscientious⁴⁰ scruples⁴¹, which she had been bold enough to utter, but they were silenced by John's quoting no less an authority than Mr. Coulson. The schoolmaster had been overheard saying to Tom Teeter that he had spent all one Saturday forenoon reading "Innocents Abroad." And he had told Annie some of the funny stories in it, hence John had begged it from Malcolm, who had borrowed it from a High School boy in Cheemaun.
 
So the three sat them down in a shady nook, against a mossy log, and listened with delight while John read. They took turns at reading aloud; Charles Stuart was the best reader, and Elizabeth the worst. She either read very slowly and stumbled over all the long words, or else so fast one could not follow her. But Charles Stuart was a wonderful reader, one of the best in school. Indeed, Mr. Coulson declared that Charles Stuart would make a greater public speaker than Tom Teeter some day, if he set his mind to oratory⁴³.
 
But to-day it was John's turn to read, and when the extracts were not too funny he progressed fairly well, toiling⁴⁴ along in a quiet monotone. When the story became very laughable, however, he proved a great trial to his listeners. Before he could utter the joke, his voice would fail and he would collapse⁴⁵ into helpless laughter. When importuned⁴⁶ by his audience to speak out and let them know what the fun was, he would make agonized⁴⁷ attempts to utter the words, failing again and again, until Charles Stuart would snatch the book from him. Sometimes the sight of John struggling to utter in anguishing⁴⁸ whispers the thing that was rendering⁴⁹ him helpless was far funnier than Mark Twain himself, and Elizabeth and Charles Stuart would roll over on the grass in shrieks⁵⁰ of laughter long before they heard what the joke was about.
 
But such irresponsible conduct could not continue, and when the cool part of the day had been consumed in the shade, they had to turn out in the blazing noon-day sun to hunt for strawberries. The three adventurers would have preferred the shade and Mark Twain, or else a dash through the woods, but they were true Canadians, born with that innate⁵¹ idea that he who does not work should not eat. So to work they went of their own free will. The strawberries were plentiful⁵², and soon the tin cups, heaped with their luscious⁵³ loads, were being carried to the pails beneath the bass-wood bushes. Elizabeth never grew weary picking strawberries. This was a task infinitely⁵⁴ removed from being shut into a hot kitchen with a dish-towel, while the boys played in the barnyard. The glory of the day, the sense of freedom from restraint, the beauty of the rosy⁵⁵ clusters, hiding shyly beneath their pretty leaves, all combined to make work seem play. She picked so furiously that she was a spur to even Charles Stuart, accustomed as he was to hard work at his farm-home, and lest they be beaten by a girl the boys toiled⁵⁶ strenuously⁵⁷.
 
By the time the afternoon sun had begun to wane⁵⁸, the big pails were filled and shaken down and filled again, the pickers had eaten almost as much more, and surfeited⁵⁹, hot, and thirsty they found themselves on the edge of the slash that bordered the woods.
 
Down the leafy pathway which led towards the school they could see Sandy McLachlan's log house standing⁶⁰ in its little clearing.
 
"Hurrah over and ask old Sandy for a drink," cried Charles Stuart. "I'm chokin'."
 
Elizabeth followed them into the woods, full of delight. It would be such fun to visit Eppie in the afternoon, just as if they were grown-up ladies, and she had come to stay to tea.
 
There was a strange, deserted⁶¹ air about the little place. There was nobody in the tiny garden, where Eppie's sunflowers and sweet peas stood blazing in the sunshine. There was even no sign of life about the little log house. They went up the hard beaten path to the door. It was open, and they peeped in. Eppie's pink sunbonnet was lying on a chair and the crumbs⁶² of the late dinner were still scattered⁶³ over the bare pine table.
 
"They must be down at the barn," said Charles Stuart. "I'm goin' to have a drink, anyhow."
 
A rusty⁶⁴ tin dipper hung over the well, and they helped themselves. The sound of the pump brought a little figure round the corner of the old log barn.
 
At the sight of Elizabeth, Eppie came running up the path. She was barefooted, as Eppie always was except on Sundays, and wore a coarse, gray wincey dress and a big apron⁶⁵. Poor Eppie's clothes were all much too large for her, for the little girl had no woman's deft⁶⁶ hand to dress her. She shyly slipped past the boys and took hold of Elizabeth's hand. Her big, pathetic eyes shone with joy. "Oh, Lizzie, I'll be that glad to see you," she whispered in her old-fashioned way. Perhaps it was her long dress, but somehow Elizabeth always had the impression that poor Eppie had always been old and grown-up. "Come away down to the barn and see grandaddy," she added, including the boys. "There's two men down there an' they're goin' to take grandaddy's house away from him, only the master says he won't let them."
 
Here was exciting news. The boys ran on ahead, and Elizabeth and Eppie quickly followed, the former plying⁶⁷ her hostess with wondering questions.
 
A smart horse and a shiny top-buggy were standing in the barnyard. In the vehicle two men were seated, and beside them stood old Sandy and Mr. Coulson. The schoolmaster was using the first two or three days of his holidays in which to bid farewell to his Forest Glen friends. Elizabeth had heard him say he would do so, yesterday in school, and as she caught sight of him she could not help thinking he must have said good-by to hundreds and hundreds of people that day, since he had started so early. The speculation⁶⁸ passed dimly through her mind as to how many of them he had kissed.
 
But her chief feeling was one of joy at the sight of him, and keeping hold of Eppie's hand she went round to the side of the horse where he stood. Elizabeth was shy and frightened in the presence of strangers, unless some unusual encouragement brought her older self to the fore⁴², when she could converse⁶⁹ with the ease of an accomplished⁷⁰ society woman. But the sight of these smart-looking strangers, evidently from town, filled her with discomfort⁷¹, and she shyly drew up behind Mr. Coulson.
 
"But, Mr. Oliver," he was saying, "there must surely be some justice in his claim. Why, Mr. McLachlan has lived here for twenty years, and changed the place from dense⁷² woods to what you see now."
 
The elder man in the buggy, a stout⁷³, good-natured looking fellow, lazily blew a whiff of smoke from his cigar and smiled in a superior way. "Mr. Huntley," he said, turning to the young man at his side, "when Mr. Coulson enters your office, I'm afraid you're going to have trouble drilling him into the mysteries of meum and tuum as interpreted by the law."
 
"Yes, as interpreted by the law," repeated Mr. Coulson rather hotly. "The law sometimes speaks in a foreign language. If I thought my study of it was going to warp⁷⁴ my ideas of right and wrong I'd go back home and pitch hay for the rest of my life."
 
The young man in the carriage looked at him closely. He was a handsome young fellow, about Mr. Coulson's own age, with a clever, clean-cut face. "There's something in your contention⁷⁵, John," he said, "but I'm acting⁷⁶ for my client remember, and he has his ideas of right and wrong, too. He's paying for the place."
 
The young teacher's face fell, and old Sandy McLachlan, who had been watching him with eyes pitifully anxious, came a step nearer.
 
"They will not be turning me off?" he asked, half-fearfully, half-defiantly. "I would be working on this place for twenty years. Mr. Jarvis would be telling me it will be mine, as long as I live. And what will become of me and my little Eppie?"
 
"Well, well, Mr. McLachlan," said the jolly-looking man, not losing a whit⁷⁷ of his jollity at the sight of the old man's distress⁷⁸. "Well, well, we won't discuss the matter any further to-day. You won't be disturbed until the fall anyway. And Mr. Huntley here will see that justice is done, whatever happens. He's one of the cleverest young lawyers in Cheemaun, you know."
 
"Hech!" interrupted old Sandy, his eyes blazing. "Yes, it is that I will be fearing. The Lord peety the man that will be falling into the hands of a clever lawyer!"
 
The comfortable-looking man seemed to take this as a grand joke. He laughed heartily⁷⁹ and dug his elbow into the side of his young companion. "Hear that, Blake? Ha, ha! you lawyers deserve all you get. Ha! ha! that's good!"
 
The young man at his side did not reply to the raillery. He was looking past Mr. Coulson at the group of four children, standing open-mouthed, gazing at the men, and breathlessly listening to every word. He was particularly struck with the smallest one, a little girl in a torn, berry-stained blue pinafore and a sunbonnet of the same material. Her two small brown hands held in a tight grasp the hand of old Sandy's granddaughter, her cheeks were crimson⁸⁰, and her big eyes were blazing with an expression of mingled⁸¹ wrath⁸² and fear.
 
"Whose youngsters?" he asked, nodding towards them. "They don't all belong here, do they?" Mr. Coulson turned, and for the first time noticed the berry-pickers. "Hello! Charles Stuart and John Gordon and Lizzie herself!" he cried. "Been picking berries, eh?"
 
"Who's the little brown thing with all the eyes and hair?" asked Mr. Huntley.
 
Mr. Coulson took Elizabeth's hand and drew her up to the side of the buggy. "This gentleman wants to know your name, Lizzie," he said.
 
"It's 'Lizbeth Jarvis Gordon," said that young lady with great dignity. She was not the least bit shy or frightened now. Had she liked this Mr. Huntley she might have been, but she was filled with a longing⁸³ to stand up boldly and denounce him as a cruel monster who was trying to turn Eppie and her grandfather out of Forest Glen. She looked straight into his face with big, accusing eyes.
 
"Jarvis!" said the young man in surprise. "That's a familiar name. Where did you get it, Miss 'Lizbeth Jarvis Gordon?"
 
Elizabeth gave that haughty⁸⁴ turn to her long neck, which the conduct of Charles Stuart and John so often called forth⁸⁵. She looked away straight over the fence-tops. It might be rude, it certainly was not genteel, but she positively⁸⁶ refused to converse with a scoundrel who would ill-use Eppie.
 
Mr. Coulson looked down at her averted⁸⁷ face and tightly closed lips, and an amused look flitted over his countenance⁸⁸. He understood this peculiar⁸⁹ little Lizzie fairly well, and lately had been feeling very sympathetic towards her, for special reasons of his own.
 
"She's a namesake of Mrs. Jarvis," he explained. "But you're not in favor. There's a deep friendship here, you understand." He nodded significantly towards Eppie, standing back pale and tearful.
 
"Oh, I see. And I'm the ogre in the fairy-tale." The young man laughed. "Well, well, Queen Elizabeth, I hope we'll meet again under more friendly auspices⁹⁰. In the meantime, here's something to remember me by." He dived into his pocket, and the two boys behind Elizabeth gave a gasp⁹¹ of astonishment⁹². He was holding towards her a shining silver American dollar!
 
And then, for the first time in his life, John Gordon felt a thrill of pride in Lizzie. For the little girl stepped hastily back, her hands clasped tightly behind her. Her face grew crimson with shame and anger. Why, no one was ever given money to except the beggars and crossing-sweepers she had read about in the Sunday-school library books! And she—a Gordon—to be offered a coin, as if she were a charity orphan⁹³, and by such a horrid⁹⁴, horrid, bad man as this! She flashed him one look of deeply offended dignity, and, catching⁹⁵ hold of John's coat, slipped behind him.
 
The man named Oliver burst again into loud laughter, and slapped his companion on the back.
 
"Ha! ha! Blake! Turned down that time, all right. Queen Elizabeth's a mighty⁹⁶ haughty young lady!"
 
The young man pretended to laugh, but he really looked annoyed, as he crushed his scorned money back into his pocket, and took up the reins⁹⁷. He did not glance again at the haughty Queen Elizabeth, but nodded curtly⁹⁸ to old Sandy. "Good-by, Mr. McLachlan. Don't forget to drop into my office when you're in town. Good-by, Coulson. See you Monday, I suppose."
 
And, giving his horse a sharp cut with the whip, he went whizzing off down the lane.
 
"Lizzie Gordon," said Mr. Coulson, catching hold of her sunbonnet and giving her a little shake, "you gave that young man a severer rebuke⁹⁹ than I managed in half-an-hour's hard talk. Now, cheer up, Sandy. Things aren't hopeless yet."
 
"Och, and it iss not hopeless I will be," said the old man, with a stately air. His face lit up, and his eyes took on a far-away look. "I haf never seen the righteous forsaken¹⁰⁰ nor his seed begging bread. That will be the word of God, Mr. Coulson, and not even the lawyers can be breaking that. I will not be righteous, oh, no! The Lord forbid that I say such a word, for it is the evil tongue I will be hafing that will be uttering ungodly words when the dogs will be coming into the house o' the Lord—and a curse on them for pollutin' the holy place! But, indeed an' indeed, it is a miserable¹⁰¹ sinner I will be. But my father would be a great man of prayer, and versed¹⁰³ in the Scriptures¹⁰⁴, and for his sake the Almighty¹⁰⁵ will not be letting the wee thing come to want. Oh, no, indeed."
 
There was a sublime¹⁰⁶ faith in the old man's heart that rose above worldly disaster. His little granddaughter crept up to him and laid her little brown hand on his coarse shirt-sleeve.
 
"The place will be ours, anyway; won't it, grandaddy?" she whispered tremulously. "They couldn't be turning us out, could they?"
 
As he looked down at her, the old man's mood changed. His fighting blood was rising.
 
"Eh, them lawyers!" he cried fiercely. "I will be begging your pardon, Mr. Coulson," he added apologetically. "But it will be a great peety that a fine man like yourself would be hafing anything to do with the tribe. But if they had jist been hafing the Gaelic, I would haf been giving it to them. Och, but it will be a peety about the English. It would be but a poor spoke¹², indeed."
 
"Well, Sandy, let us hope that there are some honest lawyers. I'm going into Mr. Huntley's office on Monday, and I'll do my best for you. Don't worry."
 
When the farewells had been said, and Elizabeth had comforted Eppie in parting, the berry-pickers found to their joy that Mr. Coulson was to accompany them for a short distance, on his way to Wully Johnstone's. They had many eager questions to ask him. What were those men doing? the boys demanded. How dared they try to turn old Sandy away? What had they to do with his place, anyway? Mr. Coulson explained that they could not understand it all, for law was a very complex thing indeed. But all this property of Sandy's, as well as Tom Teeter's land, and everything between here and The Dale, had once belonged to Mr. Jarvis, and now belonged to the lady for whom Lizzie was called. Mrs. Jarvis had come to Cheemaun this summer and had asked her lawyer to sell all this property. And now it would appear that old Sandy's farm was for sale, too. For Sandy had no deed of his property; in fact, had merely worked it for Mr. Jarvis, who, Sandy declared, had told him that all south of the Birch Creek¹⁰⁷ belonged to him. But it wasn't in writing, and lawyers did not believe anything they didn't see.
 
The children listened dismayed, and each proffered¹⁰⁸ his own opinion as to the line of conduct old Sandy should pursue. Charles Stuart would barricade¹⁰⁹ the gates and put up a palisade round the whole farm, the way they did in the old Indian days. Yes, and he would buy a gun and shoot dead anyone who set foot on his property. John heartily agreed with the plan, introducing modifications¹¹⁰. A palisade would require all the soldiers in the County of Simcoe to man it. Instead, he would lay mines and torpedoes¹¹¹ and deadly man-traps up the lane and all through the bush, so that no approach could be made to the house.
 
The two walked on ahead, consumed with excitement over the warlike plans, and Elizabeth and Mr. Coulson fell behind. He saw the distress in the little girl's face, and made light of the situation. Eppie would be all right, she need not worry. No one would touch her, not even Mr. Huntley, who was after all not such a bad young man. And, to change the subject to something brighter, he said:
 
"It's just fine luck you came along this way. I'm going away to-morrow, and I thought I shouldn't see you again."
 
"But I was up when you were at our place this morning," said Elizabeth, and no sooner were the words out than she could have bitten off her tongue for its indiscretion. She did not need the startled, dismayed look in the young man's eyes, or his crimsoning¹¹² face, to tell her she had made a shocking mistake, for the older inner self rose up in severe accusation¹¹³.
 
"Oh, Mr. Coulson!" she stopped in the pathway and regarded him with deep contrition¹¹⁴. "Oh, I didn't mean that! I—I mean I couldn't help seeing. I was watching for fear John would run away on me, and go fishing. And nobody else saw—and Annie doesn't even know. And you know I wouldn't ever, ever tell, don't you?"
 
She looked up at him with such desperate anxiety that he could not but have confidence in her. His own face cleared.
 
"You're sure nobody else saw?" he whispered.
 
"Oh, yes, certain," breathed Elizabeth. "I—I—" she stopped, overcome by the tears of shame that were filling her eyes.
 
Her teacher took her hand. He could never bear to see a little girl in distress. "There now," he said. "It's all right, Lizzie. But you know, little girl, this is something I can't explain to you, because you are too little to understand. You will know all about it some day. But listen." He stopped and looked at her closely. "I know we can trust you, little Lizzie," he said.
 
Elizabeth looked up at him through her tears. It was entirely¹¹⁵ the wise old Elizabeth that was there.
 
"Yes," she said solemnly, "I wouldn't tell."
 
He slipped his little note-book from his pocket and scribbled¹¹⁶ in it. It might be just as well to warn Annie. The two boys had disappeared round a curve in the leafy pathway ahead. He folded the note carefully and handed it to her. "You won't lose it, Lizzie?" he asked. "And you'll give it to Annie when there's no one around?"
 
"Yes! yes!" cried Elizabeth. She slipped it into the pocket of her blue pinafore, and smiled up at him. She felt wonderfully grown-up and important. Mr. Coulson was putting confidence in her. They had a secret between them, he and she. She said good-by to him at the place where the path to Wully Johnstone's branched off, and away she ran after the boys, dancing with joy.
 
When the weary and hungry berry-pickers reached home they had an exciting tale to tell and many questions to ask. Tom Teeter came over after tea to give his opinion upon poor old Sandy's case. Jake Martin across from him was trying to buy Sandy's land, folk said, and if Martin did such a thing, then he, Tom Teeter, considered him a more penurious¹¹⁷ and niggardly¹¹⁸ miser¹⁰², that would skin his neighbor's grasshoppers¹¹⁹ for their hide and tallow, than he had already proven himself to be.
 
Mr. MacAllister had dropped in, too, as he very often did of an evening, and suspended his work to discuss the question of the moment. Mr. MacAllister's double business of farmer and mill-owner, while not at all taxing his physique, was too much for his mental powers, and he was frequently compelled to have recourse to Mr. Gordon for help. Mr. MacAllister had a peculiar method of calculating the selling price of lumber, which he very appropriately termed "the long way of figgerin'." It was so long that it frequently covered boards and shingles¹²⁰, and even the walls of the mill, before the final number of dollars and cents appeared, the result being that the lumber sawn was all out of proportion to the number of figures required to compute¹²¹ its value.
 
So Mr. Gordon was frequently appealed to, and with a few magic strokes he would reduce the Long Way to its proper size. On this evening the problem was put aside for the discussion of poor Sandy's affairs. Mr. Martin was known as a hard man throughout the countryside, and Mr. MacAllister gave it as his opinion that if Sandy had Jake Martin and the lawyers after him, he might as well get out of the country. There was no hope for a man when the law got him. For the law was a scheme used by smart folks in town to cheat people out of their earnings¹²².
 
Mr. Gordon said, "Well, well, well," and, "Indeed and indeed," and hoped things would not be quite so bad. But his sister looked worried in her stately, reserved fashion. To be sure, this business might bring Mrs. Jarvis to her door, who could tell, especially as Mr. Oliver and Mr. Huntley had both seen Elizabeth. But what an Elizabeth to be described to that lady! On the whole, she was worried, and when the visitors were gone she followed her brother into his study and asked to see the paper signed by the late Mr. Jarvis, stating that they had really a lawful¹²³ claim upon The Dale. And she was not surprised, though much dismayed, to find that her unbusinesslike brother had no such document in his possession.