"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer; "Sandy--'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way like what I said!"

There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in the girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender.

Madam Bubble was herself again!

Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumn leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia spied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment she pushed her letter into it.

"There!" she panted; "and I'll put my answers in it, too, and give them all to Sandy when he comes up The Way."

But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl at that moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between this moment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and how was she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems that confronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept from the door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. Old Ivy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight in the Walden "plot," and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did not understand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a great deal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to question where she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took to pacing the upper balcony and repeating over and over:

"The hills--whence cometh my strength!"

It was quite fearful, but Cynthia had already learned to keep away from her aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made matters worse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured to call at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorable that the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at the outer door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked into the hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowe had left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Walden raised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strange flashes of lucidity, overcame her.

"Out!" she shouted--"it was all a lie--there never was a marriage!

Never! Would you kill me and the child? Leave us alone. We will not take the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!"

Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floor and with outstretched hands she moaned:

"He killed her! killed her! and I damned her; leave us alone!"

At that point Cynthia rushed into the room and caught the poor, old, shrinking form in her arms; then, with flashing eyes she turned upon Marcia Lowe.

"Go!" she commanded with sudden courage and desperation. "Go! Don't you hear Aunt Ann?"

"You promised, little Cyn!" whined Miss Walden, "you promised!"

"I know--all about it!" Cynthia murmured, still keeping her fear-filled eyes upon the caller--"I, too, want you--to go away!"

Her training had fitted Marcia Lowe to understand and take alarm at what she beheld, but it also demanded that she leave at once. Since then Cynthia had never seen the little doctor, and the change in Ann Walden did not include another furious outburst such as that.

The excitement of the letter faded when the magic sheet of paper was hidden from sight, and stern necessity brought the severe lines back to the thin, pale face. It was just at that moment that Smith Crothers came down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves and branches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off his hat. Whatever the girl felt and believed of the man was gained though indirect information--he had meant nothing personal to her before, and it was something of a surprise for her to realize that he was a good looking man and could smile in kindly fashion.

"Little Miss Walden," he said courteously, "I've just been a-hearing how you-all suffered from the storm. Mr. Greeley done told me the old lady is all around cracked!"

"Cracked!" The mountain interpretation of this word flooded Cynthia's consciousness like a flame that made plain all the subtle fear of the past few weeks. That was it, of course! "All around cracked!"

"Oh!" came in a shuddering cry; "oh! oh! oh!"

"Now don't take on that-er-way," comforted Crothers, coming nearer.

"Us-all mean to stand by you. I expect you-all ain't over-rich either, and we-all can help in a right practical way. What do you say, little Miss Cyn, to coming down to the factory and doing light work and getting mighty good pay?"

A new horror shook Cynthia's pallid face; but Crothers met it with a laugh.

"Don't take on without reason," he soothed. "Ain't I done something for the mountings?" he asked; "I know what some folks think about me, little Miss Cyn, but you be a right peart miss, and I ask you straight and true--wouldn't things be worse, bad as they be, if I didn't take folks and pay 'em? Chillun is better 'long o' their mothers, when all's said and done, and they don't have to come if they don't want to, and when they do come the work don't hurt them. Just 'nough to keep 'em from mischief and me a-paying their parents for what is play to the young-uns."

Cynthia thought of Sandy's moan over the baby-things of the factory and her eyes filled. She did not know, perhaps Sandy did not understand, but once he had said to her during a flight of fancy:

"Some day I'm going to gather them-all away from old Smith Crothers and save them!"

"Come and see for yourself, little Miss Cyn."

The tone was friendly and kind, and the actual necessity of the future gripped Cynthia.

"Come and see. I know what is due to you and your folks, Miss Cynthia; I don't ask you to work 'long of the others. I have work for you right in my office where I can have an eye to your comfort and pleasure.

Just copying letters and addressing envelopes and I will give you"--Crothers paused; his sudden desire was carrying him perilously near the danger point of being ridiculous--"I'll give you three dollars every week. Three whole dollars!"

With vivid memory Cynthia recalled the long years that it had taken to earn the three dollars for Sandy's venture and she gave a little gasp.

"Three whole dollars! And you can get down to the factory after you make the old lady comfortable, and I can let you have a little mule--all for yourself--to tote you to and fro."

"It's--it's very kind of you, Mr. Crothers," Cynthia panted; "I'll ask----" Then of a sudden she recollected that there was no one to ask. For the first time in her life she was confronted by an overpowering condition that she must meet alone! Just then a sharp touch of cold struck her as the changing wind found the thin place in her coarse gown.

"I'll--I'll come, and thank you, Mr. Crothers," she said in shaking voice. "I'll come, next week!"

"Good!" cried Crothers, "and I'll send up the mule--we'll put its feed in saddle bags--I'll throw that in and----" the smile on the man's face almost frightened Cynthia, though the words that followed seemed to give it the lie.

"I'm going to have one of the men stack wood for you, too, and lay in some winter vegetables. I don't want you to think badly of me, little Miss Cyn. I want to help you-all."

When he had gone Cynthia drew a long breath, and shivered as though some evil thing had threatened or touched her in passing, but an hour later she was thankful her sudden impulse had led her to accept Crothers' offer, for the wind changed and brought from its new quarter a biting warning of winter. Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp, dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefully up into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh that aroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that woman learns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her rugged horse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a business proposition.

Sally was gathering wood behind her cabin with a fervour born of fear and knowledge. She knew what the change of wind meant and her wood pile was far from satisfactory. Long before Marcia Lowe came into sight the old woman stood up and listened with keen, flashing eyes alert.

"Horse!" she muttered, and then rapidly considered "whose horse?"

Not the old doctor's from The Forge, for he never used up horseflesh in that reckless fashion. His circuit was too far and wide for such foolish extravagance.

"It's coming this-er-way!" Sally concluded, and since there was no other human habitation on that particular route but her own she rightfully appropriated the approaching visitor. With a quickness of motion one would not have suspected in such an old body, the woman ran into her cabin and, as a society belle might have rushed for her toilet table, Sally made for a closet in the corner of her living room. From there she brought forth a can of vaseline and daubed some of the contents artistically around her lips; then she tied over her shabby gown a clean and well-preserved apron and smoothed her thin, white hair.

"Now," she muttered, composedly taking her knitting and sitting before her hastily replenished hearth-fire; "now, I reckon who-sumever it may be, will think I've had a po'ful feast o' po'k chops, judging from my mouf, an' no quality ain't mo' comfortable than I be?"

A smile of content spread over the old face as this vision of respectability enfolded the poor soul. At that moment Marcia Lowe jumped from her horse, tied it to a tree and came rapidly up to the open door. There was an anxious look in her eyes and the corners of her lips drooped a trifle more than they did when she first rode up The Way. The life of The Hollow was claiming her as it had her uncle before her. As she looked in the cabin and saw the composed figure of the mistress a gleam of humour lighted her face and she secretly rebelled at the sensation of lack of ease which often overcame her in the presence of these calm, self-possessed "poor whites."

"They are so inhumanly superior!" she thought, and then a kindlier feeling came.

"Good afternoon, Miss Taber."

Sally looked up with an assumed surprise worthy of her race and tradition.

"If it ain't Miss Lowe!" she exclaimed, coming forward cordially. "It sho' am, Miss Lowe! Come in, ma'am and rest yourself."

Sally's idioms savoured of darky dialect and her mountain quaintness:

"I'll brew a dish o' tea, ma'am."

Marcia Lowe refused this attention and stayed Sally by her first words.

"Miss Taber, I want you to help me out with a very difficult matter.