"Run away?" she said. "I didn't know a Morley had spirit enough to do that even with conditions as they must be along of that woman of Martin's in the cabin. Where has he gone?"

"Nobody ain't knowing exactly--just gone! I expect he'll turn up again when his stomick done clutch him. Dat chile never done us-all no 'commodation job, but he was too good to live up to that cabin in de Holler. If I knowed whar he done hide himself, I clar I'd fotch him some victuals even if he _was_ sharp as a sarpint's tooth in a bargain."

"If you hear of him, let me know," Ann Walden said quietly; "he's too good, as you say, to be left to that evil woman Martin lives with.

I've had the boy on my mind for some time. He has the mark of cruelty and neglect; he' been mighty silent too, about it all--he resembles his grandfather."

And now Cynthia breathed again freely and happily. A breath of air stole through the window and across the room--the atmosphere was clearing.

"Whar's lil' Miss?"

"Lying down across in the library. Go close the door softly, Ivy, and come back. I have something to say to you about her."

The child upon the sofa wished to be alone with herself, so she shut her eyes and pretended sleep when the lean, black hand reached into the room and drew to the door. Cynthia wanted to think about Sandy; she wanted to follow him, in fancy, after her own fashion, and above all else she wanted to be with him in the Significant Room.

Once the door secured her from intrusion she arose from the sofa and locked it quietly; then she set the window wider to the summer day.

The casement was choked with the yellow rosebush and heavy honeysuckle; the fragrance was almost stifling, but Cynthia heeded it not.

"Now," she whispered, with the slow smile coming to her lips, "now, Sandy Morley, I'm going to hang your picture in its place!"

The large gray eyes fastened upon the empty space near the chimney, the space where, when the afternoon was fair and clear, the western sun poured its light through the tangle of vines at the window and fell full upon it.

"The man who cut his way through his enemies." Cynthia knew her "Pilgrim's Progress" as many children know their nursery rhymes. It was her only guide to life, but she interpreted it for herself. "The Biggest of Them All." And then the girl laughed her rich, rippling laugh.

It was Madam Bubble now who stood before the fireplace, a gentle creature with little head bent forward in listening attitude and a waiting, pleading look in the fine eyes. A bit too tall and thin was she for grace, but Time would take care of that--and, fortunately, Cynthia was many-sided. The dull, monotonous life of Stoneledge had retarded development. Never having mingled with children, she was untested and untried along certain lines. Poor, shabby Sandy Morley had been and was her only interpretation of youth as it had touched her personally--he and her ungoverned imagination had supplied the motive power, so far, for the foundation of her emotions.

"I--helped you!" she said softly to "The Biggest of Them All"--"I. And wherever you are you will remember that."

There was an old, cracked, dimmed mirror between the chimney-place and the window, and tiptoeing to that, Cynthia viewed herself as if for the first time in her life. The image was strange to her; confusing and half fearsome. It was not the reflection of the awkward, thin Cynthia Walden that she saw; Cynthia of the long braids of hair and short patched gingham gown of irregular length--owing to many washings and shrinkings. It was the reflection of something Cynthia was to be some day who looked back at the questioning girl. Slowly the colour rose to the pale face and the big eyes flinched.

"Stand straighter!" commanded the inquisitor before the mirror. The shoulders braced, but too long had the slender neck bent forward to obey the sudden exertion now. Cynthia would always carry that waiting pose!

The ugly checked gown next caught the critical eyes and the impotent hands pulled it down at the waist, while a sense of its unloveliness brought a quiver to the sensitive mouth. "Hateful!" was the verdict.

Then with fumbling, unpractised hands Cynthia gathered her two long shining braids and bound them around her head--somewhere she had seen the fashion, and a feminine instinct appropriated it. Next she stepped quietly to the window and broke off a deep yellow rose and a delicate trailing bit of honeysuckle rich with bloom; these she wound with intuitive skill in her twisted braids, the rose nestled close to the left ear. Thus adorned she tested the mirror again. Gone now was the ugly gown; gone was the awkward pose--the face that smiled out at the young judge was a wonderful face with its secret promise of by and by.

"Oh! you pretty honey-girl!" There was absolute detachment and lack of vanity in the words. The woman-nature of Cynthia was simply giving homage to a young creature worthy its admiration. "Oh! I want to kiss you and love you! I want you to kiss and love me!" And then the denied craving for affection and fondling rose supreme. "I want to cuddle you, honey--you are mighty sweet!"

The slow smile touched the lips of the reflection--the dear, slow smile of Madam Bubble.

Cynthia pressed close to the old mirror and laid her lips to that alluring creature she was some time to be!

"Honey!" she whispered, "dear, pretty honey-girl!" The tears clouded the love-filled eyes; a sense of loneliness drove the rapture away, and the hands fell limply.

Going to the window, Cynthia knelt down and, resting her arms upon the sill, laid her pretty head upon them.

She was never to be wholly a child again. Never was she to let her hair fall in the little-girl fashion. Something had happened to her, and tracing the something back she realized that it had been done when Sandy kissed her good-bye!

Vivid was the red now in the girl's face. Her South had brought the bloom forth early, and she was unprepared and unlearned in its demands.

"I want--some one to love me!" No words formed the thought. "I want----" Then all the ties of her barren young life were reviewed and found inadequate. Presently the yearning eyes rested upon the old painting of Queenie Walden. It was a miserable piece of work; an indefinite likeness, but it held the gaze and the fancy of the girl upon the floor. "I want--my mother!" The hunger and longing brought fresh tears to the aching eyes. "Mother!" She had always known the relationship, and had always guarded it as a sacred secret. The flood of repression and denial came in full force now.

"I want to know all!" That was the demand, and straightway Cynthia sprang to her feet and ran from the room. She was still running when she came into Ann Walden's presence.

"What's the matter, Cynthia?"

"Aunt Ann, tell me about my father and mother!"

The sudden question, the sight of the flower-decked head, set Ann Walden into a trembling fit. Since the day of Marcia Lowe's call she had never been the same. She slept badly, ate poorly, and feared greatly. Day after day she had expected the late visitor to return or send a representative. When she heard that the stranger had gone away she breathed more freely for the respite, but dreaded the reason for the going. She had passed through such torture as she had never known or undergone before. Something, unsuspected, rose and reproved her; pride, self-esteem, and faith had perished when many readings of the letter had driven truth home. Finally nerves refused to suffer longer and a kind of revenge took its place.

"Very well!" she had concluded desperately; "Queenie and I will keep the child--at last! You and yours shall have no part in her or for her."

Thus she had decided regarding Cynthia. She meant to break forever with Theodore Starr and all who were connected with him. She would resent, not only for herself, but for the poor sister who had mistakenly, and for love of her, kept silence and left the memory of Starr unclouded as the only gift she could give the woman they both had wronged!

Yes, Ann Walden had thought it all out. When Marcia Lowe came again she would tell her that she believed there had been no marriage! That would end it. No proof could be found--did not Ann Walden know the shiftless mountain ways? Marcia Lowe would never press dishonour upon them all--and the money was no lure to the proud, poverty-stricken woman. She meant to revenge herself upon Theodore Starr by keeping Cynthia even at the price of proclaiming the girl's dishonour to Starr's niece.

From much thinking through wakeful nights and torturing days Ann Walden had evolved a very sincere hatred and bitter resentment. She almost believed that Starr had betrayed her sister, and poor Cynthia, who had always been a duty--not a joy--was to pay the penalty!

"Tell me about my father and mother!"

The strong young voice repeated the commanding words; the lovely flower-twined head bent forward.

There was no wise person to note and take warning of the strange light in Ann Walden's eyes as she met the question put to her; it was, however, the look of insanity--the insanity which feeds upon hallucination; the kind that evolves from isolated repression and the abnormal introspection of the self-cultured.

"When you are older, Cynthia."

"No, now, Aunt Ann. I must know. My mother's picture hangs in the library, but my father's is not there and no one ever speaks of my father."

How could one fling into the simple innocence demanding knowledge, the bare, bold truth? But Ann Walden, driven at bay, worn, embittered and touched already by her doom, answered slowly:

"Your--father was--a bad man! that is why no one speaks of him; why his picture does not hang near your mother's."

"A bad man? What did he do, Aunt Ann?" A childish fear shook Cynthia's face. Bad, to her, was such a crude, primitive thing; "was he bad like--like the men here who drink and beat their women?"

"Worse than that!"

"Worse, Aunt Ann? Did he--beat my mother?'"

The horror, instead of calming Ann Walden, spurred her on.

"He--he killed her!"

"Killed her!" And with that Cynthia dropped beside her aunt and clung desperately to her hand, which lay idle in her lap. "Oh! is--is--he dead? Can he come to hurt us?"

Then Ann Walden laughed such a laugh as Cynthia had never heard before, but with which she was to become familiar.

"He's dead. He cannot hurt us any more. He did his worst--before you were born."

A sigh of relief escaped the girl as she listened and her tense face relaxed.