Across the midsummer fields Jason went swiftly.  On his right, half of a magnificent woodland was being laid low—­on his left, another was all gone—­and with Colonel Pendleton both, he knew, had been heart-breaking deeds of necessity, for his first duty, that gentleman claimed, was to his family and to his creditors, and nobody could rob him of his right to do what he pleased, much less what he ought, with his own land.  And so the colonel still stood out against friend and neighbor, and open and secret foes.  His tobacco beds had been raided, one of his barns had been burned, his cattle had been poisoned, and, sick as he was, threats were yet coming in that the night riders would burn his house and take his life.  Across the turnpike were the fields and untouched woodlands of Marjorie, and it looked as though the hand of Providence had blessed one side of the road and withered the other with a curse.  On top of the orchard fence, to the western side of the house, Jason sat a while.  The curse was descending on Gray’s innocent head and he had had the weakness and the folly to lift his eyes to the blessing across the way.  As Mavis had pointed out the way to Gray, so Marjorie, without knowing it, had pointed. the way for him.  When long ago he had been helpless before her by the snow-fringed willows at the edge of the pond in the old college yard, she had been frightened and had shrunk away.  When he gained his self-control, she had lost hers, and in her loneliness had come trailing toward him almost like a broken-winged young bird looking for mother help—­and he had not misunderstood, though his heart ached for her suffering as it ached for her.  And Marjorie had been quite right—­he had never come back after that one quarrel, and he would never come.  The old colonel had gone to him, but he had hardly more than opened his lips when he had both hands on the boy’s shoulders with broken words of sympathy and then had turned away—­so quickly had he seen that Jason fully understood the situation and had disposed of it firmly, proudly, and finally--for himself.  The mountains were for Jason—­there were his duty and the work of his life.  Under June apples turning golden, and amid the buzzing of bees, the boy went across the orchard, and at the fence he paused again.  Marjorie and her mother were coming out of the house with Gray, and Jason watched them walk to the stile.  Gray was tanned, and even his blonde head had been turned copper by the mountain sun, while the girl looked like a great golden-hearted lily.  But it was Gray’s face as he looked at her that caught the boy’s eyes and held them fast, for the face was tense, eager, and worshipping.