"Can you tell me, little Cyn?"

"No!" The voice was distant and monotonous.

"But something has happened, dear. I want to help you."

"The factory--is burned down!" A shudder ran over the rigid young figure. Marcia Lowe saw that she might hope to win her way if she did not startle the benumbed mind.

"Were you hurt, dear? Was any one hurt? When did it happen? How did you hear?"

After each question Marcia waited, and then put another. Still that fixed, steady gaze.

"I--I was there. It was night. He--he kissed me--don't look like that! look away! your eyes hurt me!"

Marcia came closer and took the girl in her arms.

"Now, darling," she whispered, "close your eyes and I'll close mine--there are only you and I and--God here."

"He--he kissed me, Crothers did! Then he wanted me to do something--oh! I do not know what, but something he thought I could do--I felt it, and--and I threw the lamp at him. It was lighted and he went down in a heap and I--I ran right hard, but I went back and pulled him out when the fire started. I do not know why--for I want him out of the world. I shall be afraid always while he is in the world!"

"It's all right now, little Cyn, all, all right."

This only could the horrified woman repeat over and over, as she swayed to and fro with closed eyes and Cynthia on her breast.

Vividly she seemed to see the late scene. The helpless girl; the brutish man; the lonely night shutting them in and only a miracle to save. Details did not matter, and the miracle had come, but the after effects were here and now.

It was near noon before Marcia Lowe dared take Cynthia away from the shelter of the church, and when she did so she chose an hour when all but Greeley were absent from the store, and he was in the rear, eating his dinner.

"You must come to Trouble Neck, little Cyn," she said firmly; "you'll be safe there, and we must think this out."

Cynthia made no demur, and wrapped in Marcia Lowe's coat--Marcia had a lighter one beside--she clung close to the little doctor and walked the three miles to Trouble Neck without a word of complaint.

"It's plain good luck," Marcia Lowe thought, "that Martin Morley is out of hospital." And then she smiled grimly up into the girl-face beside her, for Cynthia was fully as tall as she.

It was late afternoon when Tod Greeley strode over to Trouble Neck for no particular reason. Outside the door he stood and listened to low-spoken words and snatches of song.

"'Taint nowise normal, I reckon," mused he; "a woman's tongue and mind has got to have some one to hit up against, or the recoil is going to do some right smart damage to the woman herself." Then he knocked, and went in at the word of command to enter.

"Just conversationing with yourself?" he asked.

"Yes. Poor company's better than none. Sit down, Mr. Greeley; you're always welcome."

"I brought some news. Crothers' factory is plumb burnt to the ground."

"Land sakes!" ejaculated the little doctor in the idiom of her home town; "any damage besides the factory?"

"Crothers is right used up. They say he tipped over the lamp in his hurry to get up and--things happened."

"Dear suz!" Marcia Lowe was lapsing into old-fashioned speech.

"And Miss Lowe, little Miss Cynthia was thar after hours! They do say she acted like she was possessed. She pulled Crothers out of the flames and saved his life I reckon--that is, if it _is_ saved! He ain't perked up much yet, 'cording to reports. But Miss Lowe--little Miss Cyn ain't come home! I'm tumble feared lest she went back again for something, and----"

Miss Lowe got up from her chair and cautiously motioned Tod to the doorway of the lean-to.

"Look!" she whispered. Greeley expected still to see Martin, but instead he saw the delicate, sleeping face of Cynthia Walden. He drew back with a stifled cry.

"That there room o' yours," he faintly said when he reached the fireside again, "is right nerve-racking. It's like one of them Jack-boxes at Christmas."

"She only stopped here because she was tired. When she awakens I will take her home," explained Miss Lowe.

Greeley was nonplussed, but when he was in doubt he turned the subject and talked more than usual.

The following day Cynthia was taken home. Providence and the strain and excitement saved her from serious harm, but when Marcia Lowe left her by the gate of Stoneledge there seemed to be something tragic in the fact that after such an experience, no explanations were necessary.

Ann Walden was past any earthly worriment, and Sally Taber could not understand then, or ever, the soul-hurt little Cynthia had received.

"It's good friends now and always, little Cyn?"

"Yes, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

They stood by the dilapidated gate.

"And you will come often to Trouble Neck?"

"Right often."

"And you are not afraid? Remember I have a care over you."

"I am not afraid."

"Then kiss, little Cyn, and God bless you."

On her way home Marcia Lowe stopped at the church to rest and "talk it over with Uncle Theodore."

The golden winter sunset streamed through the window and lay bright and fair like a shining way up to the altar. Marcia walked the brilliant strip and sat down in the minister's pew. Wrapping her heavy coat about her she raised her eyes to the pulpit and a great comfort came.

Then she closed her eyes and the pale, fine face of her uncle seemed to rise before her.

"If you could only tell me all about it, dear," she whispered. "I would help any little girl. God knows, but I could help yours so much easier! Isn't there some way, uncle, that you can make me understand?

Is your place so far away?"

A step fell upon the floor; a shambling, tottering footstep. Miss Lowe turned and saw Andrew Townley.

"Sit here beside me," she said; "this is a good place to be."

"It's a right good place, ma'am. Seems like we-all can't kill Parson Starr. I seem to feel like it was only yesterday when he rode up The Way and sorter settled down like a blessing long o' us-all. Lately, as I pass by or turn in yere I get a call back to something what he spoke.

To-day it came to me right sharp how he said 'greater love' and then went on to explanify. I'm right old in years, ma'am, and I'm doddering, I expect, but I reckon I knows as much as that po' moon chile o' Hope's. You know Crothers has got him, too, 'mong the wheels, and the po' lil' boy he comes home all wild and sicklike, and mornings Hope has to lick him down The Way--he hates that-er-much to go. Come to-morrow, I'm going down to Crothers' and I'm going to offer up myself 'stead o' that moon chile. When I go to join Parson Starr I'd like to have something to offer him by way o' excusing myself. 'Parson, I'll say to him, parson, this I done 'long o' "Greater Love."'"

Marcia Lowe's eyes filled with tears as she took the poor old fumbling hands in her own.

"Dear, dear friend," she faltered, "God will not need your service. He has chosen a burnt offering instead of a human sacrifice. The factory is in ashes now, and for a time, the children may rest."