"Food," he gasped in a voice Greeley never forgot; "God-a'mighty--food!"

Then Greeley beheld a miracle. He saw Marcia Lowe run to the fire in the living-room and bring to the bedside of the sick man a tiny kettle of some smooth liquid; he saw her dip a spoon in and then hold it to the lips of Morley. She had forgotten Greeley; forgotten all but the man upon the bed.

"Slowly, slowly!" she whispered; "we've won! we've won! There! there!

It's going to be all right from now on--the charm's worked!"

Awed and afraid, Greeley tiptoed from the house, and all the way back to the waiting County Club he muttered like a half-wit:

"Fighting a worm! Fighting a worm!"

CHAPTER XIII

The day that civilization and education took Sandy Morley into its keeping, saw Cynthia Walden astride Crothers' mule jogging down The Way to the factory. Sandy, arrayed in immaculate attire, was borne to his school among the New Hampshire hills by train and coach. He was desperately lonely; thoroughly frightened, but he was well in body; healthfully sustained by good food, and he had so much money in his pockets that he was in deadly fear of being waylaid and robbed.

Cynthia, on the contrary, was dressed in a shabby gingham gown freshly laundried and stiffly starched, but much mended, and her pocket was guiltless of money. She had no fear of being attacked, so she sang sweetly and joyously as she bobbed about getting her blood circulating, for the old coat and hood she wore were pitifully inadequate for the crisp weather. Cynthia was young and hope led her on; besides, she had just deposited a most poetic letter to Sandy in the hole of the tree.

Old Sally Taber had smoothed the problem of Stoneledge for the time being, and there was going to be plenty of money now that Crothers had opened the way for Cynthia to employ her talents!

Cynthia tried the bird-note Sandy had conquered so successfully.

"Why don't we-all have birds in winter 'stead of summer?" babbled Madam Bubble from her mule; "and moons on dark nights, and hot suns at Christmas?" Then she laughed, and the laugh left the dear, slow smile as a reminder after the joyous sound died away.

"The Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady is in the church," Cynthia exclaimed suddenly as she neared Theodore Starr's small edifice from whose chimney smoke was rising. Then she kicked the fat sides of her mule and turned her supercilious head aside in order to escape Marcia Lowe's eyes, were they scanning The Way.

"It's right noble of her to take care of Sandy's father," the just mind granted; "but Aunt Ann and I--must do without her!"

A touch of yearning lay in the words. Cynthia needed what Marcia Lowe might mean to her, and only loyalty to Ann Walden restrained her.

But Marcia Lowe did not see Cynthia pass. For months now, through the doors and unbarred windows, the light and air had come into the little church, and the spirit of Theodore Starr had, in some subtle manner, been permitted to live again. People dropped in occasionally and sat and thought of the dead parson. Sometimes Marcia Lowe welcomed them and coaxed them to tell her of her dear uncle. She always sat in what she called "the minister's pew," and there were times in her lonely detached life when she seemed to see the calm, fine face looking down at her from the poor pulpit. He never looked the weak man who was afraid of Ann Walden; to his loving niece he was ever the strong brother-of-men who had died while serving them not worthy of him! As Cynthia rode by, Marcia was building a fire in the drum stove, lately placed in the church, and singing, prayerfully, a favourite hymn.

"Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of Nature newly born; Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the dawn.

"So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee."

The fire responded and outside the shadows of the dark trees of The Way enshrouded Cynthia as she hurried on.

That day in the factory was the hardest day of Cynthia's life. To a young girl born in freedom, be that freedom of the meanest, the confinement and authority were deadly. Then, too, to witness the utilization of the baby-things that were mere cogs in the machinery of Crothers' business, hurt the mother-heart of the girl cruelly. At the noon hour she tried to make the sad little creatures play--but they had forgotten how, if they ever knew; they, stared at her with wondering eyes; ate all of her lunch she offered, and shivered in their thin clothes by the wretched fire in a shed provided for their leisure time.

"Oh, Sandy, Sandy," murmured Cynthia as she looked about, "I'll help you get them away from here some day."

A new fear and hate of Crothers grew in her heart as she impotently suffered for the children, but Crothers was as gentle and kind to her as any wise and considerate father could have been. He was patient with her bungling and errors; he did not turn her off to his clerks for instruction, he spent his own time upon her. Every moment that he was near her Cynthia trembled, and when he accidentally touched her she recoiled sharply. Crothers noticed this, and at first it angered him; then caused him much amusement. Unconsciously the girl was fanning into sudden and violent flame that which might have slumbered on for months. Before the end of the first week Crothers had noticed how lovely Cynthia's shining braids were as they twined around her pretty, bent head. His eyes grew thoughtful as he noted the lines of the softly rounded shoulders and dainty girlish bosom. The little dent in the back of the slim neck was like a dimple and even the small roughened hands were shapely and beautiful.

"How old are you, little miss?" Crothers asked her the third day of her business life, and Cynthia fearing that her youth might prove an obstacle answered blindly:

"Going on--fourteen!" She looked more, for her South, in spite of all her meagre upbringing, had developed her rapidly. Crothers smiled indulgently.

When Saturday night came four dollars was handed to Cynthia by Crothers himself.

"It was to be three," she said, holding the money toward him. He took the fingers in his, closed them over the bills, and said:

"Just a little present for a nice little girl who has tried so hard to be good."

Cynthia drew back and her eyes flashed dangerously.

"I do not want it!" she said quickly, and flung a dollar on the desk.

"I only want what is mine!" After she had gone Crothers swore a little; then laughed. The laugh was more evil than the oath, but no one was there to hear.

Cynthia had no one to speak to about her fear and loathing of Crothers.

Besides, she had entered upon her career and dared not turn back. She did not understand herself, nor the man who was her employer; she did not understand conditions nor the yearnings that possessed her; she only knew that she must fight against becoming a poor white, and learn to overcome the limitations of her birth, and Crothers seemed her only chance. On the long rides to and from the factory she thought often of her poor mother and wondered about her bad father. She wished she had learned more about them while Ann Walden was capable of telling her.

The time was past now when the mistress of Stoneledge could impart any reliable information to the girl. When the weather permitted the old woman paced the upper balcony crooning to the hills, and as cold and storm shut her inside she seemed only happy in the library. So Sally Taber, reinforced by the money which supposedly she so miraculously had saved, had the room made habitable. Mason Hope was coaxed into giving some of his valuable time to the repairing and by mid-winter the place was comfortable.

"Ole miss is jes' a plain moon-chile now," Sally confided to Marcia Lowe at one of their private conferences; "it's right silly to oppose her."

"Yes, give her everything you can, Sally, and oh! if she ever has flashes of reason get her to talk and--remember what she says!"

"Deed and deed I will," promised Sally. "And if she ever do get her wits back it will be in dat ole libr'y-room. She acts right human thar at times."

Marcia Lowe was sorely puzzled about Cynthia those days. If she were only sure that Ann Walden would never recover her reason she would take her chances with the girl and plead Theodore Starr's cause, but with no actual proof, and with Ann Walden's evident past instruction to Cynthia, she hesitated to make her own claims. Then, too, there were times when doubt rose in her mind, not as to her uncle, but Cynthia's parentage. There might never have been a child born to Queenie Walden.

The Hollow story of adoption might be true after all. That would have accounted for old Miss Walden's bitter resentment. It was all very difficult and confusing, but in the meantime she could love the girl, and do, indirectly, for her what personally she could not.

Oftener and oftener the little doctor went to the church by The Way and "sat with Uncle Theodore," as she put it. It was less lonely there; the store was near by and the passers-by were becoming more friendly.

Occasionally they dropped in. Tod Greeley and old Townley more than the others, and chatted sociably. Marcia Lowe had much to be grateful for, and when, one morning two weeks after Morley had been pronounced cured by his faithful doctor-nurse, he came to her, as she sat in the church, and said quietly:

"Miss Lowe, I'm going up yon----" pointing to his own cabin, seen now between the bare trees, "to straighten it up a bit," she wept as if her heart would break. Martin did not witness the outbreak; he had set forth upon his task. Marcia Lowe was alone and upon her knees.

"Dear God!" she repeated over and over; "dear God! he is saved. He'll open the way to others."

Martin Morley went upon his new course unheeded for a time, for a tragic happening to Cynthia and a calamity to the community threw the little doctor and many others into chaos.

Cynthia had been a month in Crothers' factory, when one late afternoon he said to her:

"Little miss, could you bide at The Forge tonight?" Cynthia started back and looked at him.

"It's this-er-way; you've become mighty helpful to me and I've got a batch of letters to get off by the morning's mail. It looks like there is going to be snow, too, and I'd hate to keep you late and then send you toting home after dark. Now if you can stop over and work 'long o'

me till--say ten o'clock, we can finish the work and I'll set you down safe and sound at my boarding-house for a good night's rest."

Cynthia gave her usual shudder and sought about for an excuse. She knew Crothers' boarding-house keeper; knew her to be a decent soul who had more than once, lately, brought a hot meal to her at midday when she brought Crothers'. There was snow in the air, too, and a late ride through the woods at night was almost more awful than to stay at the factory.

"They-all will worry," she faltered in her pretty, slow way.

"I sent word by Hope's boys," Crothers reassured her, "they've just gone. I knew I could depend upon you."

Cynthia struggled to control herself, and finally gave her smile and shrugged her shoulders.

The mistress of the boarding-house brought to the factory a piping hot supper for two at seven o'clock. She seemed to know all about Cynthia's proposed stay, and showed no sign of misunderstanding it.

"You better fotch the chile in 'bout nine," she suggested to Crothers as she went out; "she do look clean beat now. Quality don't last out at work like trash do; they certainly do tucker out sooner."