Having sent the letter away impulsively, the poor little lady had a week of real torture. Daily she walked to the post-office, when no one was watching, and caused Tod Greeley much amusement by her nervous anxiety.

"Meaning no offence," he confided to Marcia Lowe, "and respecting her age and gray hairs, I reckon the old miss is in love. It comes late to some folks," he sighed pathetically, "and it comes right hard when it strikes past the time limit, but nothing but love takes it out of folks like what this old miss is suffering."

At last the answer came and Matilda read it with the door of her bedroom bolted and the washstand barricading it as well.

Olive Treadwell wrote:

I'm mighty glad to say something about this affair to some one who can understand me. Imagine my feelings when, out of the blue, as one might say, Lans brought this girl home and said, "I'm going to leave her with you, Aunt Olive, until I can see my way clear. I am brother to her and she is sister to me until—the way's made plain." That was all and then Lans betook himself to his old quarters and began to work. He's taken a position on the Boston Beacon and calls, actually calls, on his wife evenings or takes her and me out to theatres and dinners. I'm supposed to be training this young woman, for what, heaven only knows! but I have my hands full. Lans was always erratic and poetic, but this is beyond my comprehension, He has had affairs of the heart, of course, but this is different. The girl is the strangest creature I ever saw; she is uncanny. After I got her into proper clothing I saw she had beauty and charm of a certain kind. She takes to ways and expressions mighty quick, and she is the sweet appealing kind that attracts even while one disapproves. I confess I am utterly dumb-founded and if you can throw any light on this matter, pray do so. The girl seems to me to be half here and half somewhere else; she isn't unhappy, and she seems to adore Lans in a detached and pretty childish way, but why did he marry her and why should he, having married her, regard her in this platonic fashion?

Of course Matilda could not answer these questions but she cried over the letter a great deal and brooded over Sandy with all the motherhood that nature had not legitimately utilized. And then, one night, Sandy came to her quite simply and directly and claimed, in his great suffering need, what she alone had to give.

It was the week before Christmas. The cabin was gay and festive, for Marcia Lowe, in a lavishness of good cheer, had decorated everything she could command beginning with the little chapel and ending with the post-office. The County Club sat now 'neath an arbour of greens, and the lowliest cabin had its spray of pine or holly.

Martin and Levi were bent over a backgammon board in Sandy's study. Markham had undertaken to correct Morley's neglected education as to games; and Martin had, after the first week, so outstripped his instructor that Levi was put upon his mettle and every victory he wrenched now from Martin gave him a glow of pride he was not slow to exhibit. Seeing the two men engrossed, Sandy stole to Matilda Markham's little sitting-room and there found the dear lady asleep before the fire, her thin white hands sunk in a mass of beautiful wools. He stood and looked at the quiet, peaceful old face; he recalled, one by one, her kindnesses to him, her growing pride and love for him, and presently his eyes grew misty. The frail creature before him became touched by the magic of his gratitude and need, the most vital and mighty factor in his life. She, in this hour of his hidden craving, was the only one to whom he could turn, and right well he knew that she would stand by him.

Suddenly Matilda Markham opened her eyes and looked directly into Sandy's. It may have been that some dream had prepared her, God may have spoken to her in vision; however that may be she said gently:

"Son, you need me? Come, tell me all about it."

Quite naturally Sandy sat down at her feet and looked frankly into the dear, old face.

"I am going to ask you to do a great thing for me," he said; "I must ask you to do it without my explaining things to you to any extent—I want you to do it as a mother might for her son—trusting me if you can."

"Dear boy, I think I can promise to do what you ask."

Then the thin hands found their way to the bent head, and as they touched the thick, dark hair a thrill shot to the woman's very heart.

"Mother!" Sandy seemed inspired to meet her soul's longing. "Mother!"

"Son, go on. I am waiting."

"It—it is about the girl—Lansing Treadwell married."

"Yes."

"I must know how things are with her. Our mountain people can be so lonely and homesick away from the hills. At times nothing, nothing can take the place of the yearning. I—I can forget everything that has even been, if I know she is right happy and content—but I must know!"

A fierceness struck through the low-spoken words. "The doubt is—is killing me."

"Shall I go now, son, or wait until after the holidays?"

"Could you go now—and alone?"

"I can manage Levi, son. Travelling is real easy these days. It will take management, but I can get what I want."

"You would understand if you saw her."

Sandy's voice trailed off forgetful of the woman at whose knees he knelt.

"She can smile and make right merry, but you would know and understand. She is such a pretty, sweet thing, but she has the iron of the hills in her. She must"—again Sandy's voice shook with passion,—"she must have happiness! If—if the noise and confusion of the city have distracted her she must come back to the mountains. Lans will agree to this—I do not doubt him! She must not—kill herself—you will know when you see her. You must come back and tell me—you will?"

"I will, son."

Matilda yearned to show him Olive Treadwell's letter, but something kept her from doing it. She wanted to do what she could for Sandy in her own way, and suddenly she felt herself a giant of strength and purpose.

"Travel alone!" she said to Levi later when she had cowed the poor man by her determination and exactions, "of course I can travel alone. Am I an idiot, Levi, or a fool? Haven't I a good American tongue to ask questions with? I remember our mother once told us she would spank us well if we ever got lost in a place where folks talked the same language we did. You put me on the train at The Forge with a through seat in a Pullman, telegraph to Mary Jane to meet me in New York, and I guess I can manage."

"But, 'Tilda, what on earth has seized you to act so uncertain in the middle of this visit? What will they think of you and me?"

Then Matilda made her master stroke and, by virtue of her sex-privilege, completed her triumph over her brother.

"Levi," she said—she was standing before him, her thin hands on his shoulders—"I ain't ever had what you might call a real fling where my emotions and sentiments were concerned. Let go of me, just this once, and trust me! I've always been sort of held back. First it was father and mother; then Caroline, and lastly you! I ain't never done exactly what I wanted to do without explaining, and now I want to be left free even if I die for it!"

"Well, well!" blurted Levi, but he caught the idea. "I guess women do have a sense of the tight rein now and then; it may lie loose mostly, but it never is quite laid off. 'Tilda, you may cut and run now, for all of me. I'll see to what, you may say, are your animal comforts—parlour car seats, tickets, and some one waiting for you in town, but you kick the heels of your inclinations good and high for once and I bet you and me will run the rest of the race together better, forever after. Whoop it up, 'Tilda, and remember money needn't be a hold back. You've got a big, fat slice coming to you, old girl."

Now that Levi had dropped the reins, the spirit of adventure possessed him. He and Sandy saw Matilda off on her journey three days later, in high spirits.

"I tell you, boy," he confided on the way back to the cabin, "it's a mighty good sign when a woman wants to jump the traces, and a good man isn't going to lick her into submission for doing it. The chances are a woman wouldn't take to kicking if the traces didn't chafe. I've meant to be kind to Matilda, but kindness can be chafing at times. A woman like Matilda, a little, self-sacrificing woman, is real enlightening if you pay attention."

Matilda seemed to develop and expand during that trip North. She ordered her meals with an abandon that electrified the waiters on the train, and then her sense of economy demanded that she should eat what she had ordered. Her tips were dazzling and erratic, but they, and her quaint personality, won for her great comfort and care. She was in better condition, physically, than she had been for many a day when, one golden winter afternoon, she stood in Olive Treadwell's drawing-room in Boston and waited for Cynthia. Mrs. Treadwell was out, but the "young lady," the maid said, was in.

"How very fortunate," thought Matilda and then took her rigid stand across the room. Unconsciously she was waiting to see what Lansing Treadwell had done to this girl of the hills whom he had so ruthlessly and breath-takingly borne away. Lans was, unknowingly, before the most awful bar of judgment he had ever stood—the bar of pure womanhood!

There was a step upon the stairs; a quick, yet faltering step, and then Cynthia entered the room and came toward Matilda Markham with deep, questioning eyes and slow smile. The impression the girl made was to last the rest of Matilda's life. Once, years before, Matilda had seen a rare and lovely butterfly caught in the meshes of a net, and, oddly enough, the memory came to her now as she looked at the sweet, starry-eyed creature advancing. She was as surely caught in an invisible net of some kind as the long-ago butterfly had been. Matilda Markham noted the conventional gown of dull blue with silver trimming; the little slippers to match, and the silken stockings; her eyes rested upon the string of small silver beads wound around the slim throat; all, all were but part of the mesh that caught and held the spirit that had ceased to struggle.

How lovely she was, this Cynthia of Lost Hollow, in spite of the crude conventions! The frank, waiting eyes were as gray-blue as her mountain skies; the lips, half-parted, had not forgotten to smile above the hurt and pain of her tiring days and homesick nights; the smooth braids of shining hair bound the lifted head just as dear Madam Bubble had designed them on the morning when the portrait of "The Biggest of Them All" was hung in the Significant Room.

"You—wanted to see—me?"

The drawl had become sacred to Matilda's ears.

"Yes, my child. I have come from your old home just to see—you."

A faint colour stole into the whiteness of the fair face.

"From Lost Mountain?" Oh! if Sandy could have heard her say that word how it would have rested his soul! "From Lost Mountain?"

"Yes, my dear. Come and sit here beside me."

Matilda could not stand longer. Her knees shook beneath her for, like a blinding light, the knowledge came to her that poor Lans, with all his faults, was exonerated from any wrong to this young girl! The innocent old eyes and the radiant young ones had no veil between them. Sitting side by side they smiled bravely at each other and then Cynthia reached out her hands.

"You are"—she whispered—"you are Sandy Morley's fairy godmother! Oh! I know all about you. Lans has told me. I am right glad—oh! mighty glad to see you!"

The voice shook with emotion and Matilda Markham could not answer for a moment. Never in her life had she been so moved. She longed to take this girl to her heart and hold her there, but instead she found herself, presently, telling the homely news of the hills to the hungry soul whose yearning eyes never fell from her face.

"And the little doctor is my own aunt, you know?"

"Yes, child. They told me all about it."

"It's right good to have one's own—at last;" this was plaintively whispered; "and my dear, dear father. You know his story, too?"

"Yes. It lives in the hills and speaks for him even to-day."

"They-all say I'm like my father."

"I am sure you must be. You are like Miss Lowe, and I guess one can always tell which parent a boy or girl is like. I guess Sandy, now, is like his mother. He doesn't favour his father."

"Yes. I reckon Sandy must be like his mother. I had never thought of that before."

Cynthia's eyes were fixed and dreamy.

"And you, child, are you happy and content?"—the words of Sandy were the only ones possible—"I must tell them all about you when I go back."

"You are—going back?" the yearning was unmistakable—"I thought, maybe, you were going to stay here—I'd be mighty glad to have you near."

"I'm coming home, to my own home a little later. I'll see you often then."

Slowly they were advancing and retreating, this woman and girl, but each venture brought them a little nearer. Like the incoming waters of a rising tide a slight gain was made, moment by moment. Then suddenly and unexpectedly a rushing current bore them to the high mark.

"You poor, homesick child! Come cry it out and have done with it!"

It was not like Matilda Markham to so assert herself; it was not like the dear, brave Madam Bubble to succumb as she now did; but, in another instant she was kneeling where Sandy had knelt a few nights before, and clinging to the dear hands which had, then, rested upon his bowed head.

The wall of suppression that Cynthia had raised, during the past weeks, between her mountain life and this artificial one of the city, crumbled at the message from the hills. Her part in the strange drama sank to insignificance, and in her weakness she was able to view it clearly and dispassionately with this plain little woman who had come to serve her.

"I did not understand," she sobbed; "I was tired—there had been the night in the storm, you know. I did not want to make trouble and—oh! how can I tell you, but it was only when the little doctor—my aunt—explained everything that I saw myself standing alone in the confusion with something I must say and do! I couldn't let them do my work for me, dear lady,"—the quaint expression caused Matilda Markham to draw in her breath sharply—"I was no longer a child and I had to bear my part. When we-all stood in Sandy's cabin and the truth came to us-all, at once, I reckon for the first time in my life, I realized I was a woman. I couldn't take my chance and leave Lans out. They-all wanted to save me from myself, but they forgot him and then when he said"—the girl gasped—"that he wanted me—I had to go! I did not go because any one compelled me—I just had to go! I was led like when I married Lans. More and more I see it now; I feel it in the night. It did not happen, dear lady; it all leads up to something God wants me to do; something no one can do as well as I. Sandy had his call—you know how he responded? Well, I have my leading. We-all, of the hills, get near God, dear lady. We are lonelier; we need Him more and He speaks more plainly to us, I reckon."

The superstition and mysticism of Lost Hollow held every thought and fancy of this girl, but Matilda Markham realized that they gave her strength and purpose as they had poor Sandy before her.

"Oh! my dear, my dear!" was all she could say, but she freed one of her cool hands from Cynthia's hot one, and laid it like a benediction on the girlish head.

"I am waiting, dear lady, for the thing I am to do, and Lans is mighty kind. He is my big brother and I am his little sister—until I can read my way plain. You did not know he was so good?"

"I thank God that he is!" breathed Matilda Markham devoutly.

"I wish I could make—Mrs. Treadwell understand. She—laughs!"

Matilda felt her ire rise. The laugh of Olive Treadwell could be brutal and cruel in its sweetest ripple!

"It seems right long and wearying waiting, waiting for the meaning."

Cynthia's slow words flowed on. She had ceased crying and was looking up now with brave, clear eyes, "and part of me is there—in Lost Hollow. That part of me comes to comfort this part of me—can you understand, dear lady?"

Matilda nodded. She did, indeed, understand.

"And that part of me makes this part of me—stay here! After that mighty hurry and trouble when Lans and I came away alone I was right frightened. There was just once—while we stayed a few hours in New York that I—that something happened. I was in a room, Lans had gone out to order luncheon and I felt I had to run away! I stood with my back against the wall when he came in and I reckon I was wild, for he came close and took my hands this-er-way——" Cynthia was acting the vivid scene standing now before Matilda Markham and holding her hands—"and he said slow and firm, 'lil' girl, I'm not going to hurt you. You and Sandy Morley are not going to see me fail!' And then that part of me that lives always in Lost Hollow went back mighty safe and strong. I haven't been afraid, dear lady, since."

Then it was that Miss Markham arose and realized her strength to its full extent.

"Child," she said, "I've changed my mind about going back to Lost Hollow to-morrow. I'm going to Bretherton and that is only a half hour by rail from here. I want you to come to me, there. I must see you again. I'll explain to Mrs. Treadwell and Lans. I declare I haven't felt so like my old self for years and years."

"Oh! dear lady!" Cynthia's shining eyes were large and happy; "dear lady! you mean you will let me see you in your own home?"

"I mean—just that."

"Oh! Oh! why sometimes I think that soon God will say, 'lil' girl, your task is done. Run back home now! Run back to your hills.' Maybe I can go back with you!"

A gayety rang in the sweet voice that almost reduced Matilda to tears. The abandon and inconsequence were so oddly mingled with the strange determined strength that the elderly woman was confused and irrational.

The wayward, wild creature of the hills, ensnared in the net woven by Lans's blind passion and irresponsibility, seemed so incapable of fulfilling any role that demanded the recognition of her as a wife in this superficial environment that Matilda felt immoral and sacrilegious. She wanted to say, instead of leaving it to a higher power, "Your task is done, lil' girl! Run back to your hills!" but instead she said brokenly:

"You will come to Bretherton?"

"Indeed, yes; dear lady!"

"Perhaps you will go out with me to-morrow if I stay over night in town?"

"If—oh! if they will let me. But you see, there are a mighty lot of things to do—I'm learning!"

"Good-bye then, dear child."

And that night, on the paper of a quiet little hotel, Matilda wrote a brief note to Lost Hollow. She addressed it to Levi.

I'm going to stay on a spell. I never felt better in my life. It was the thinking that life didn't need me any more, that was running me down. It's awful foolish for old folks to let go of things. By the way, I called at Olive Treadwell's to-day and saw Lans's wife. She's real fascinating and real good looking. Brother, I want you to reconsider about leaving Lans out of your will. He's coming out real strong and blood is blood! Tell Sandy this girl, Cynthia, sends kind regards and is enjoying her stay in Boston better than she expected.

This letter had a marvellous effect upon Levi and Sandy.

"What do you think of that?" Levi exclaimed shaking with laughter. "If that ain't spunk and real grit."

Sandy was looking out of the study window and did not reply.

"That's the old New England spirit. Never say die and all the rest!" Levi chuckled.

"Thank God for it!" was all Sandy said in return.



CHAPTER XXVI

The work God had sent Cynthia to do came to hand very shortly after Miss Markham's return to Bretherton. Cynthia had spent one blessed day at the quiet old farm, then Mrs. Treadwell and she went down together and stayed over one night, and once Lans ran down and had an hour's talk with his Aunt 'Tilda before she slipped back to Lost Hollow and Cynthia's task came for her doing.

Lans's visit had sent Matilda to her knees beside the four-post bedstead in the room that had once been Caroline Markham's.

"Caroline," the trembling old lips had breathed, "it was your boy who came home to-day. Your boy!"

For Lans quite frankly and naturally had told his story. The hot blood of the South was well in command and the light of reason was in the sorry eyes.

"Aunt 'Tilda, all my life I've been excused and forgiven for my faults—bat I'm going to work my way out now, God helping me! I'm going to take whatever punishment and joy comes. Up there in the hills I was like a devil caged. I had passed through a trouble and been worsted; I saw Morley standing where I should have stood, had I been less a fool years ago. I couldn't seem to see, up there, how he deserved all that was his. I was just maddened. I wanted to get on top and—I let go myself! Cynthia seemed a child at first but all of a sudden she flashed upon all that was evil in me—and I went blindly ahead until I stood among them all in Morley's cabin. They all seemed so big and fine and true and I saw—myself! All at once I found myself wanting more than I had ever wanted anything in my life—to make good! I took my own way. Some day you will all understand. That little girl is going to have her choice by and by—I only wanted my fair chance to win out. When she makes her choice her soul will be hers—I promised Sandy Morley that!"

It was this that had sent Matilda to her knees beside the bed of Lans's mother.

And one evening—it was two days before Christmas, Lans took Cynthia and his Aunt Olive Treadwell to a theatre in Boston. The play was a popular one and, being late, Lans was obliged to take a box in order to get seats. Cynthia felt and looked like a child. The excitement and brilliancy brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes dance. She hardly spoke and only now and then heard what her companions said.

"Lans," Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is Marian Spaulding in the tenth row!"

This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned and looked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in black was looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thin face remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthralling play drove it, for the time being, into shadow.

"Blue is Cynthia's colour," Mrs. Treadwell next remarked apropos of nothing. "She's right handsome, Lans. You ought to be less a fool and behave normally. She'd make a mighty sensation if——" But this did not interest the absorbed third party in the box at all.

When the play was over and the audience was crowding into the lobby, Cynthia noticed the girl of the tenth row near them. She was not looking at them, but she gave the impression of listening to what they said. Again the face claimed Cynthia's attention.

"Brother," she said softly to Lans, "is that a friend of yours? She looks mighty sad."

Lans gave another sharp start and rather abruptly replied:

"I knew her once. Come, little sister, that is our number being called. We must not hold up the line of taxis. Aunt Olive is out of sight."

Strangely enough Cynthia did not dream of the play that night; nor did the sad, fair face of Lans's one-time friend hold part in her visions, but she did dream of Lost Mountain as she had not dreamed of it in many a night. She was back among the dear, plain home scenes. She was planning with Sandy the Home-school; she was in the cabin at Trouble Neck with the little doctor. The sun was shining in the broad, opened door and she and Marcia Lowe were sitting where the warm brightness flooded them. And at that juncture of the dream something very vivid occurred. Quite distinctly she heard the little doctor say:

"In all the world there is nothing so important as this, Cyn. Remember it as long as you live."

Upon awakening, Cynthia, in her still, dark room, found herself haunted by the dream and the little doctor's words. They were startling, yet strangely familiar. When, before, had Marcia Lowe spoken them; what had she meant? Then suddenly it came back to Cynthia. It was about little children!

"Our loves and our poor selves!" Marcia Lowe had often said, and especially when she and Cynthia were working over the little ones of the hill cabins, "what do they matter compared to the sacred lives of these helpless creatures?"

She had been quite fierce about it once when she had told Liza Hope that God would hold her responsible if she brought any more blighted souls into existence through Mason's passion and her own weak yielding.

Lying awake and trembling in the small room off of Olive Treadwell's, Marcia Lowe's words returned with sharp insistence and kept Cynthia wakeful for many an hour.

The next morning she was alone when the maid came to her and said a lady wanted to see her on very important business and had asked that they might be undisturbed for a half hour. Cynthia, puzzled and half afraid, bade the girl bring the caller to the sitting-room in which she then was.

What followed was so vital and impressive that all her life Cynthia was to recall the setting of the scene. The whiteness of the sunlight streaming into the east windows, the deep red of the wall paper, the tick of the marble clock on the shelf, and the crackle of the cannel coal fire on the hearth. While she waited for the visitor she was unconsciously preparing for the part and the lines of what was to follow. By the time the slow, light steps were at the room door, Cynthia seemed to know who the stranger was. The maid closed the door after the guest and then Cynthia said quietly to the tall, black-robed girl:

"You—are—Marian Spaulding!"

"He—he has told you?"

"No. Mrs. Treadwell—told me! Please sit down."

They faced each other with only a few feet between them. Cynthia was obsessed with but one conscious thought—she must go on as she was led; say what she would be told to say. She could not think for herself. But the stranger—distracted and ill at ease, leaped at conclusions; hurried to her goal and took no heed of the obstacles in her path.

"I did not know until last night that he—that Lans had a sister," she said. "Our own affairs were so engrossing and—and exclusive—at that time!"

Marian Spaulding had an odd habit of spacing her words as if the sharp breaths in between were dashes to emphasize her thought. "I knew Mrs. Treadwell was aware of—of our arrangement—I knew, from Lans, that she was broad minded and generous but when I saw you two together last night—I—I wanted to come to you instead of to her!"

An overpowering excitement in the speaker began to affect Cynthia. She drew her chair closer and whispered:

"Please tell me—all about it!"

The significant words rushed Marian Spaulding breathlessly onward.

"I—I could not go to him—to Lans—until I made sure—as sure as possible—that I would not be injuring him by—by my demands. I wanted to tell some one who loved him and would think of him, first. He was always so heavenly good to me—I would not harm him even—now!"

"No!" Cynthia's deep eyes were fastened on the white, strained face. "I reckon no one would want to hurt Lans."

"I was so unhappy when—when he saved me from my life of shame and misery. There was no other way—and—and we had to choose! He was so noble—it was I who—who—gave myself to him; he never exacted—anything. I—loved him as only God and I can know! Poor Lans never comprehended why I left—but he—my husband was ill; dying and I could not help it. Something made me go back. It was the good in me that Lans had created that most of all compelled me to go. If Lans could believe that! oh! if he only could! A woman could, but could a man?"

Poor Cynthia was struggling to understand a strange language.

"I'm right sure," she faltered, "that Lans could understand."

"Do you think so? Oh! I have been so tortured. He told me to come to him if I needed him and God knows I need him now—but I wanted most of all—not to hurt him—or exact too much from his goodness. You see——" a palpitating pause followed. Then: "I did not know of my condition when I went away; I only heard and saw the wretched man who was once, who was still—my husband. I stayed and nursed him; he died—a month ago—and now—I must think of—of—the child!"

"The child?" Faintly Cynthia repeated the words and her bewildered mind struggled with them and fitted them, somehow, into the Hopes' cabin, and that scene where Marcia Lowe arraigned Liza.

The door of the sitting-room opened and Lans entered noiselessly. Marian Spaulding's back was toward it and in her slow, vague way Cynthia was wondering why he should be there just then. The last shielding crust of childhood was breaking away from Cynthia—her womanhood, full and glowing, was being fanned to flame by the appeal this strange woman was making upon it. Cynthia, the girl who had been caught in the net, had no longer any part in this tragedy—she was free!

"The child?" she again repeated, "what child?"

"Why, Lans's and mine!"

Then Cynthia stood up quite firm and straight. She looked full and commandingly at Lans who was leaning, deadly white, against the door he had closed behind him.

"Here is Lans, now," she said, more to the haggard man than to the pale woman.

It was as if, in those four simple words, she appealed to the best and finest of him to deal with this fearful responsibility which was his, not hers. In that instant she relinquished all the forced ties that held him and her—she cast him off superbly at this critical time of his life; not bitterly or unkindly—but faithfully.

Marian Spaulding turned and rose unsteadily to her feet, then with outstretched arms, she staggered toward Lans. Over her pitiful, wan face a flood of passion and love surged—her lonely, desperate soul claimed its own at last!

"Lans! Lans!" she cried, falling into his arms; "you will understand! you must understand—and there is—our child!"

Lansing Treadwell held the little form close, but his wide, haunted eyes sought Cynthia's over the head pressed against his breast. Cynthia smiled at him; smiled from a far, far place, helpfully, bravely. She demanded his best of him with confidence, and the unreality of it all held no part in the thought of either.

"I must take her—away!" Lans found words at last to say.

"Yes," Cynthia nodded, still smiling her wonderful smile at him.

"I will return—soon. Come—Marian!"

Cynthia saw them depart, heard the lower door close upon them and then she awoke from her spell. Sitting down in a deep chair before the fire she took the incidents of the past few moments, one by one, and set them in order. Like an ignorant child selecting block after block and asking some wiser one what they meant, she demanded of her new self the answer to all she had witnessed.

The travail was long and desperate—and when Lans Treadwell found her, an hour later, he was shocked at the sight of her face.

"My God!" was all he could say.

"We must—talk it over," Cynthia said gravely. "I can understand now. You see, dear, I couldn't have her hurt—her and—and the child."

Lans dropped in the chair Marian Spaulding had sat in and bowed his head in his hands.

"Was there ever such a cruel situation?" he groaned. Cynthia came to him and knelt beside the arm of his chair. She had never come to him so before and the touch of her body thrilled the man.

"You did not tell her—about me, big brother? did you? You let her believe I am your sister."

"Good God! how could I tell the truth? I was afraid of killing her."

"And—the child. Of course you must not tell—now."

"Cynthia, in heaven's name, don't be too hard upon me—you are my wife!"

Fiercely Lans proclaimed this as if, by so doing, he could find refuge for her as well as himself. But Cynthia shook her head and drove him back upon his better self again.

"Those little words spoken by that man in the hills," she whispered, "couldn't count, I reckon, against—all the rest."

"They can! They shall, Cynthia. I can make the past clear to you, little girl——" Then he stopped still before the look in Cynthia's eyes.

"I am a—woman, Lans!" it seemed to say.

Presently he heard her speak.

"You told Sandy, dear, that night in the cabin, that you would leave my soul to me—until—well! You have left it to me, and the time has come! I have much to learn; but I understand a mighty lot now. It came to me while I waited, for you to come back from her! My soul would never be clean again, Lans, if—I forgot—the little child—hers and yours! God will be very kind to us-all, dear, if we do right. It's mighty puzzling—but it will come straight. You once loved her?"

"Yes, Cynthia—yes!"

"And you never loved me in that way, dear?"

"You are my wife!" Again the fierceness, "you must and shall come first."

"No, Lans; I am not your wife!"

And with this Cynthia stood up and clasped her hands close.

"Every law in the land says you are!" Treadwell flung his head back and faced her; "this is a hideous tangle, but above all—through all—you are my wife!"

"I do not know, I cannot make you feel how I see it—but I am not your wife! I—I do not want to be! Why, when I saw the light in—in Marian Spaulding's eyes a little time ago as she ran to you—I seemed to know all at once—that it was not to you, Lans dear, that I wanted to run in my trouble, but to——"

"Whom?"

"To Sandy, dear. Sandy, up there in Lost Hollow."

"Cynthia!"

Was she shamming? Was she striving, ignorantly, to make escape easy for them all? Was she utterly devoid of moral sense? "Moral sense!" At that Lans Treadwell paused. The glory shining from Cynthia's eyes as she stood before him, made him shrink and drop his own. The strength and purity of the high places was upon her. She was lovely and tender, but primitively firm. The law of the cities she did not know; but the law of the secret places of the hills was hers. The law of love and Love's God.

"You must take her away, Lans, dear, and be right good to her as you have been to me, big brother," the sweet voice, the unutterable tenderness and firmness more and more carried everything before them; "and let the little child have its chance—poor lil' child! And by and by—oh! a long time perhaps—when you are all mighty happy and safe, you must tell her all about it, Lans, and make her love me—a little! Tell her—it was all I could do. She will understand and be right glad."

"And you—little Cyn?" The words came in a groan.

"I? oh! I reckon this is what God meant me to do, Lans. For this he brought me down The Way, and now he will let me go home!"

Mrs. Treadwell's step outside the door brought them both back to the poor artificial environment that bound them.

"I—I cannot see her now!"

Cynthia crouched before the stern, conventional tread of the approaching woman as if she were in a place she had no right to be and Lans quickly opened a door leading from the sitting-room to a bedroom through which she might escape. And as the slight figure ran from his sight he had a sickening feeling as if, wakening from a dream of mystery and enchantment, he found himself in the midst of sordid reality. The sweet purity of the hills passed with Cynthia and the actualities of his future entered with Olive Treadwell.

"Lans," she asked sharply, looking about the room, "who was the woman who called here this morning? The woman Cynthia saw?"

"It was—Marian Spaulding."

"Good heavens! Did she talk to Cynthia?"

"She—tried to—Cynthia—could not understand."

"She will some day, though, Lans! Can you buy Marian off? I wouldn't have believed she was so vicious. Did she—lie?"

"I rather imagine she spoke only—truth."

"Well! I reckon this is about the worst confusion that was ever brought about. Without being positively bad, Lans, you've managed to create a mighty lot of trouble for a good many innocent people."

"Yes, Aunt Olive."

Lans was standing by the window looking down into the empty street.

"What are you—going to do about it?"

Then Lans turned.

"Aunt Olive, I'm going to untangle the snarl—somehow! And I'm going to stand by—Marian!"

"Marian? You talk like a madman, Lans, or a fool—and a depraved one at that. You owe everything to Cynthia—you'll be held to it, too, by law!"

"Aunt Olive," and then Lans laughed a mirthless, cold laugh, "I wonder if either you or I ever really seriously thought we could—hold Cynthia? There is no law that could keep her here. She is of the hills. She came into our lives just long enough to purify our air and—clear my vision. She'll go back now. We—cannot keep her!"

"Go back—to whom?"

This practical question took the smile from Lans's lips.

"To Sandy Morley, I reckon," he said grimly; "most of every noble thing I might have had—gets to him—sooner or later. He always loved her; she has just confessed to me that she loves him."



CHAPTER XXVII

There was a crust of glistening snow upon The Way; every branch of the tall, bare trees was outlined with a feathery whiteness which shone, as one looked deep into the woods, like the tracery of some fantastic spirit going where it listeth without design or purpose. From Lost Mountain the shadows had long since fled, and the gaunt peak rose clear and protectingly over The Hollow, which, somehow, had undergone a mysterious change in a few short months—or, was the change due to the magic touch of love that dwelt in the eyes of a young girl who had left the early train at The Forge and, on foot and alone, was wandering up The Way with a song of joy trembling upon her lips? So quietly and quickly had she run from the station, that Smith Crothers, standing by the door of the saloon opposite, had been the only one to notice the passenger in the long coat, rich furs, and quaint little velvet hat.

"Who's that?" he asked of the bartender inside. The man, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, rose stiffly and came to Crothers.

"Ole miss from The Holler?" he ventured vaguely.

"Ole miss—be damned!" Crothers was in an ill humour.

"Company, maybe, for the Morley cabin. It's mighty 'mazing how many folks, first and last, do tote up The Way these days. But I don't see—nobody!"

Neither did Crothers, now, for the stranger was hidden from sight. Then he began to wonder if there really had been any one. The night's revel had been rather wilder than usual, and Crothers was not as young as he once was.

The bell of his factory was ringing, however, and he unsteadily made his way thither.

It was Cynthia who was treading lightly up The Way, but not the Cynthia who a few months before had gone so blindly to do the bidding of that inner voice of conscience.

"It was here," murmured she, standing behind a tall tree by the road, "that you fled from Crothers the night of the fire. Poor little Cyn!"

That was it! The child, Cynthia, walked beside the woman, Cynthia, now, and the woman with clear, awakened eyes—understood at last!

"Poor little Cyn! How frightened you were and how bravely you fought for—me! Or was it I who fought for you? Never mind! we have come home. Come home together, dear, you and I! How heavenly good it is for us to come—together!"

At every step the weariness and sense of peril, engendered by her experience, dropped from Cynthia. She was a woman, but Lans had left her soul to her, and she could clasp hands with the past quite confidently and joyously.

"Home! home!" The word thrilled and thrilled through her being, and on every hand she noted the touch of Sandy Morley with tender appreciation. She laughed, too, this thin, pale girl, and could Sandy have seen her then he would have thought her shining white face, set in the dark furs, more like, than ever, the dogwood bloom under the pines!

"And here I met him on The Way!" Cynthia paused at the spot where she had stood that spring morning, and saw, with a shock of disappointment, the man who had usurped her childish ideal of Sandy Morley.

"How lonely he must have been—when I did not know him! Oh! Sandy—to think I did not know you. You, with your brave, kind eyes and your tender heart!"

A tear rolled down the uplifted face. It was a tear of joy, for Cynthia was going to Sandy. From the unrest and unreality she had fled to him feeling confident that he would gather up the tangled and dropped threads of her life, and weave them, somehow, into a new and perfect pattern. She had so much to tell him! And he was there, close to her! Waiting, waiting for her to come to him and she could afford to dally by the wayside; gather up the precious memories—so like toys of the child she once had been and, by and by, she would go to him like a little girl tired of her day's wandering, and he would comfort her!

By the time Cynthia reached Theodore Starr's church all the heaviness of recent happenings was forgotten; it had no part in her thought. The church was gay in Christmas green and red holly berries. The morning sun, quite high by now, shone in the windows.

"Father!" whispered the girl as if in prayer, and then she knelt, where once her childish feet had borne her in terror, and buried her face in her hands. How well she now understood her dear, dead father! Strong in human love and sympathy, incapable of inflicting pain—even when pain would have been better and kinder than the lack of it—how like him she, the daughter, was! How she had slipped aside from the right path because weak desire to escape, or inflict pain, had been her portion. Well, she had suffered; had endured her exile; been mercifully spared from worse things, and now God had led her—home!

The unseen presence seemed to bend pityingly from the rude desk-pulpit and comfort the gentle heart of the returned wanderer.

Presently, choosing a time when the store near by was deserted, Cynthia ran from the church, across The Way, and escaped, unseen, to the trail leading up to Stoneledge. Her gay spirits returned and she sang snatches of song as she once used to sing. There was no sequence, no meaning of words, but the short sharp turns and trills were as wild and sweet as the bird notes. She tried Sandy's call—but her memory failed her there!

"Oh! the old tree," Cynthia ran to it. For months and months she had forgotten it, and the secret it held in its dead heart. Yes, the box was there! The box in which lay the outbursts of a girl's fancy and imaginings. With a mischievous laugh Cynthia removed the old letters and put them in the bag that hung from a girdle at her waist. Then she walked on to the old Walden Place. There a shock awaited her. What had happened? The crumbling walls had fallen in many places; but there were props and scaffoldings, too! Sandy had begun his work of redemption on the Great House. It was to be the home of the Markhams, but the surprised onlooker could not know that the property, taken by the county for unpaid taxes, had been bought in by Levi Markham in Sandy's name.

"Dear old Stoneledge!" And then Cynthia sat down upon a fallen log and knew the heavy heartedness of one who arrives too late to receive the welcome that was hushed forever. But suddenly her face brightened. In the general demoralization a portion of the house still stood—it was the wing, the library!

The roof had caved in, but the Significant Room stood open and stark to the glittering winter sunlight! Reverent hands had removed the furniture, books, and pictures; the stark and staring walls, with their stained and torn paper, were bared to the gaze of every chance passerby. Suddenly, to the yearning heart of the onlooker, a miracle appeared. The scene of devastation disappeared; there was a fragrance of honeysuckle and yellow roses in the sharp air and, in a dim, sweet, old, sheltered room stood a little girl with patched gingham gown and long smooth-hanging braids of hair, gazing up at a portrait that no eyes but hers had ever seen. It was little Madam Bubble and she was lovingly, proudly, exultingly, looking at "The Biggest of Them All!"

Unheeded, the tears rained down the cheeks of the woman standing by the ruins of her old home; she stretched her arms out tremblingly as if to hold the vision to the exclusion of all the rest of life.

"Oh! my Sandy, you have indeed cut your way through your enemies. Oh! my love; my dear, dear love."

How long she stood rapt in her vision Cynthia never knew. Her day of wonders enchanted and held her oblivious of weariness, hunger, or physical pain, but she must get to Trouble Neck; she must throw herself into the safe arms of the little doctor and—find peace and guidance. Later they—the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady and she—would go to Sandy's cabin as they had that night when Lans had claimed her and then—well, beyond that Cynthia could not see!

At Trouble Neck another disappointment met her. The trim cabin was empty! The unlocked door gave way to the eager pressure; the sunny room was full of generous welcome, and a gleam of fire on the hearth showed that the little mistress had not been gone long.

Some people leave a room more vacant than others. Like the breath of perfume, after the flower has been removed, their personality and dearness linger, making one miss them more, and long for them more keenly. As a child might suffer at not finding its mother awaiting it at the close of day Cynthia suffered then. She wandered to the table on which lay the little doctor's work—a child's dress! Beside it was a medical book opened at a chapter on the diseases of—children. And on the widespread book lay an unsealed note addressed to—Tod Greeley!

A smile, a wan, understanding smile touched Cynthia's lips, but presently it softened into the dear, old, slow smile, and the girl bent and kissed the penciled name of the postmaster, for the dear, absent hand had rested there last!

There were bread and milk and bacon in the pantry, and with happy familiarity Cynthia made a meal for herself, and ate heartily. After this she went into the lean-to chamber and taking off her hat and wraps, lay down upon the couch, for she began to realize how weary she was. She slept several hours and was awakened by a step in the outer room. Thinking it was Marcia Lowe she raised herself and looked through the half-opened door. It was Tod Greeley! He had lighted the oil lamp and stood by the table with Marcia's note in his hand. Over and again he read it, then folded it slowly and put it in his breast pocket.

A change had been wrought upon Greeley. He stood straight and firm; he was shaven and shorn and neatly dressed; his face was happier, too, than Cynthia had ever seen it. The lazy good humour was merged into purpose and dignity.

"To-morrow, then!" Cynthia heard him murmur; "to-morrow then!"

He extinguished the light and passed from the house, leaving Cynthia more lonely than she had been since she left the train that morning.

For an hour or two Cynthia struggled with herself. Abstractedly she knew that she ought not to go to Sandy Morley alone. Something that some one—she could not remember who or where—taught her, warned her that it was not right for her to leave Trouble Neck that evening.

"But why?" asked the great longing, "why?"

"You are Lans Treadwell's wife; his wife!"

At this Cynthia laughed outright. That part of her life had touched her only as her awful experience with Crothers had done; except that Lans had gained her confidence in Man while Crothers had imperilled it. The real self of Cynthia was pure and untouched; ready to offer now, to offer itself, upon the true altar of love and consecration. Nothing could change that; nothing could blind her to it; but over and through the knowledge ran the discord of suggestion left by the contact with convention, down, and far, from Lost Mountain.

It was eight o'clock when Cynthia gained her triumph over the claim upon her, and cloaked and hooded, started out.

She wore her own, old cloak and the red hood that Marcia Lowe's loving fingers had knitted for her. Sandy must not be disappointed in her; it must be little Cyn, not the Cynthia Lans Treadwell had claimed, who was to put forth her appeal for help.

The crisp, starry night was still and fine; the walk from Trouble Neck to Sandy's cabin brought the blood to the pale cheeks, light to the large eyes. How quiet the cabin was—and dark! Only one light shone forth and that was from the study. Cautiously Cynthia stepped close and looked in; the curtains were parted where a hasty hand had left them. Sandy, seated near the glowing fire, was painting at his easel. After a long day's work in the open air he was indulging his fancy, forgetting the trials and disappointments of his life in the poor talent that was his. The canvas was so placed that the watcher from outside could see it plainly over the back bent toward it. A face gleamed from a crown of dogwood blossoms—pink and white blossoms! It was the face of—Madam Bubble! The girl-face with the slow, alluring smile and the waiting eyes!

The woman outside bent her head upon her cold clasped hands while the waves of love and surrender engulfed her. All her life she had been coming to—Sandy! He had cut down every barrier but one! He must crush that! How strong he looked, how fine!

A tap as gentle as the touch of a bird's wing fell upon the frosty glass and Sandy turned sharply. He waited a moment, then came to the window. Cynthia, frightened at her daring, shrank into the shadow and breathed hard. Sandy waited a moment longer and then drew the heavy curtains together close, leaving the outer world in darkness.

A moment later Cynthia, regaining courage, crept close to the glass and tapped again. This time Sandy strode to the door, flung it wide and, standing in the panel of warmth and light with uplifted head, said sternly:

"Who is there? What is wanted?"

Who he expected he hardly knew himself, but the answer he received caused him to reel backward.

"It's—it's lil' Cyn, Sandy, and she wants—you!"

Then he drew her in, closed the door upon the world and, holding her before him by the shoulders, looked deep and searchingly into her eyes which met his unflinchingly and trustfully.

"Thank God!" was all he said, but in that moment poor Lans Treadwell passed unscathed before his last judge.

"How thin you are, little Cyn!"

Sandy had drawn the big leather chair to the hearth and seated her in it. He took off the cloak and hood and then stood back.

"I reckon the longing for home did it, Sandy."

"You have—been homesick?"

"Oh! mighty homesick. I have wanted the mountain until my soul hurt."

"Poor lil' Cyn."

"Say it again, Sandy, say it again!" The dimmed eyes implored him.

"Poor lil' Cyn."

No suggestion of impropriety had entered with Cynthia. Sandy was too fine and self-forgetful to be touched by worldliness. Cynthia had come to him; he and she were safe!

"And Lans, Cynthia?"

"Come close, Sandy. There, sit so, on the stool. I want to touch you, I want to see you near while I go back—go away from our mountain for a time. Come with me, Sandy, down to Lans!"

Then she told him. The red firelight played on her pale, sweet face; her hand sometimes reached out and lay upon the shoulder by the arm of her chair; once the fingers touched his cheek—but Sandy did not move and his eyes never looked up from the heart of the glowing log.

"It was a long journey to the day when I understood, Sandy. It was a hard path for ignorant feet and blind eyes—but God was very good to me. The South is slow with us-all, dear, but up there in the North—I awakened! I think it came—the truth, dear, when she—the girl, ran to Lans. In the mighty times of a woman's life she can only run that way—to one man! And like the mists, clearing from Lost Mountain, the shadows left me and I knew right well that come what might, Sandy dear, in all the time on ahead, in joy or sorrow, pain or—death it would be to you I would want to run."

The log fell apart in rich glory and then Sandy looked up into the drooping, flower-like face.

"Don't, lil' Cyn," he whispered, "you do not understand, but—you must not speak so to me."

Then she laughed.

"Oh! I reckon I know what you mean, Sandy. I've been through it all and—run away from it! Sandy, tell me true; before the good and great God, doesn't that poor girl belong to Lans more than I do?"

"Yes!"

"Isn't his duty to her?"

"Yes, yes, lil' Cyn."

"Then what is left? Just—you and me, I reckon, Sandy."

Sandy gripped his clasped hands close as if by so doing he could better control the rising passion of his love for the girl beside him. Her ignoring of stern fact turned his reason. She was right—but she was wrong! He must protect her and never fail her; he must not be less than Lans.

Then her words came to him in the chaos of his emotions; a new thought had claimed her. She had finished, at last, with the story of her exile; she was back among her hills.

"And the factory, Sandy, it is coming on right fast, I reckon?"

"It is nearly done."

"And—the Home-school?"

"That, too, is nearly ready."

"You haven't forgotten the lil' room, off in the corner, have you, Sandy? The lil' room where the baby-things are to come to me to be—cuddled?"

Sandy shivered.

"You—haven't left that out, have you, Sandy?"

"I had, lil' Cyn, but I am going to put it aback—to-morrow."

"I'm right glad, Sandy, for I've learned some mighty sweet lil' tunes, and I've bought some pictures and books with stories that will make them-all laugh when we've taught them how. My trunk is full of things for the babies."

Sandy permitted himself one look at the dear face so close to his own. It wore the white rapt look he remembered so well; the wonderful, brooding tenderness as fancy held it. It was so she had looked upon him when, as a ragged boy, he sat beside her. She had awakened imagination within his starved soul and given his ambition wings with which to soar.

He and she were now bent forward toward the smouldering fire; he on the stool, she in the deep chair.

"Do you remember, Sandy, lil' Madam Bubble?"

"I reckon I remember nothing else so—clearly."

He looked away, he could trust himself no farther.

"And the 'Biggest of Them All'—you remember him?"

"I—I have forgotten him, Cynthia."

"No—you have not forgotten him, Sandy!"

"He—he does not seem to have any place, lil' Cyn."

"Oh! yes and yes he does! I reckon he is bigger than even you or I—know!"

Did she suspect the terrible weakness of desire that was overpowering him? At this thought Sandy gripped his hands closer; he felt her deep, true eyes upon him and a rush of blood dyed his dark face to crimson. Cynthia saw this and laid her cool hand upon his shoulder while she asked bravely, daringly:

"Do you love me—Sandy?"

What other woman on earth could have put that question at such a time? He and she were alone in the empty woods and the night held them. Sandy turned to her.

"As God hears me—yes, lil' Cyn, with all my heart and soul. I have loved you all my life."

"In this bag," Cynthia touched the bag at her waist, "are the letters I wrote to you, Sandy, while you were away. I hid them in an old tree by Stoneledge. The tree kept them safe for—me. There are a right many—all answers to the one you sent me. Do you want them, Sandy?"

"Yes."

"Here—Sandy!"

The letters, more precious than any other gift, lay in his keeping at last.

"God bless you, lil' Cyn."

She smiled divinely.

"I wandered far down in the valley, Sandy, and I had a hard lesson to learn; a hard thing to do, and I've come home to find you waiting for me. Oh! tell me, dear, isn't there one law, just one in our land to set a lil' girl free who has made a mistake?"

Behind the two by the fire a door opened and, on the threshold stood Levi Markham perplexed and awed. Slowly the meaning of the scene came to him; Matilda had somewhat prepared him; the question of the girl by Sandy's side shed a blinding light upon the confusion of his thoughts. Standing there, rugged and strong, he seemed the personification of power and solution. But he was waiting; he must know what Sandy felt! He drew back into the cold, dark passage and played the eavesdropper for the first and last time in his life.

"Mine! mine!" Never had Sandy's voice known that tone before. Levi bowed his head.

"You are mine! Yes, lil' Cyn, there is a law, there must be a law that can give us to each other; I have been waiting for you by The Way all my life, and you have come to me, lil' girl, at last—my lil' Cyn."

Then Levi Markham stole away. He felt along the passage with outstretched hands for his eyes were blinded. He must waken Matilda; he must—but there he paused. The door, at which he had just stood, was opening! He had time, only, to crouch in the shadow of a turn of the hallway before Sandy and Cynthia came out. Sandy had his right arm protectingly around the girl; her bright head rested on his shoulder; in his left hand Sandy held high a lighted candle.

"We must tell them, dear heart," he was whispering; "they two before any one else."

And then Levi, seeing flight possible, ran to his sister's room in order that he might share the confidence that he already possessed.



THE END