Sandy had been away ten days and every day Cynthia had gone to the cabin, set it in order for Martin's comfort; revelled in the wonder of it all and feasted her soul on the books in Sandy's study.

Cynthia had slowly, reluctantly but finally given up her ideal Sandy of the past. She still kept his one letter to her and her hundred and one letters to him in an oil-cloth package in the old tree. Sometimes she stole away and read them and cried a little, softly, forlornly, as a little girl might do for a broken doll. "The Biggest of Them All"

relegated to his fate, Cynthia had turned to this new son of the Hills with frank and open mind. She weighed him, considered him and found him interesting. She was sensitive to success, and this practical, good natured, kindly Sandy was decidedly successful. He was as modest and unassuming as one could desire, but he had only to wave his hand and say so-and-so and lo! the old cabin grew and became beautiful, a factory sprang up, then a dream of a school which included everyone and everything. It was like a modern fairy story--the most exciting and compelling thing one could imagine.

Slowly, cautiously, Cynthia with childish curiosity approached this new being who had arisen on her horizon. Sandy, wise in the lore of the hills, lured her as cautiously. He had subdued his own emotions. He was a man; his life had developed him; she was still a child with the radiant woman of her blindly, gropingly, looking forth from the dear, blue-gray eyes. He could wait. She would be his dream of the hills and some day she would come true and he would tell her how he had always loved her; how her pale, sweet face, under the dogwood flowers, had kept him strong and pure and unspoiled through all the yearning years. He could wait until Cynthia, the woman, awoke and--looked at him! In the meantime he worked and grew marvellously happy in his earnest, quiet way. He made a seat for her in his study window--though she never knew how carefully he had arranged it, or how desperately he had struggled to get the right colour for the cushions. "Red," Levi had suggested when approached as to window-seat coverings. "Green, a good dark tone, is a wearing shade," Matilda had informed him, but Sandy chose blue--"the shade that looks as if it sank deeper and deeper," he explained to an artistic designer, and the man had not laughed!

Sandy bought and scattered books about in his study where Cynthia might run across them at will, and sometimes during his rare moments of leisure and enjoyment she would nestle on _her_ window seat in his study while he, his back to her, painted at his easel near the north window. At such times Cynthia liked the new Sandy almost as well as the old and was gloriously content and happy. Poetry entered her life then for the first time--poetry through books, through Sandy's modest attempts at art, and through Sandy himself.

"Let us go out windowing," he coaxed her one day when they had had a golden hour together.

"Windowing, Sandy? What is windowing?"

"Why, we'll go around to the cabins and coax or bully the people to let us make windows in their homes--big, fine windows with glass that slides easy, up and down or sideways as one may prefer. I want it done before winter sets in."

"They-all will think us all-around cracked!"

"Let's try! Windows for sale! we'll cry. It will be mighty jolly."

So they had set forth with the result that by August Tod Greeley remarked to Marcia Lowe that he was "dog-dickered if the cabins didn't look like showcases surrounded by clapboards!"

When Cynthia reached the Morley cabin that rare September day she paused to look upon the splendour, and was thrilled anew at the changes and improvements. To the southwest end of the cabin three new rooms had been added. Two bed-chambers and a cosy sitting-room.

"For that Company up North when it comes down!" Sandy explained.

"It must be a mighty upperty Company!" Cynthia replied, looking in awe at the furniture which had been sent from some magic workshop.

"It is!" Sandy assented--viewing solemnly the enamelled bedstead, the cheap chairs and plain bureau.

"And real carpets on the floors!"

"Yes. The Company has tender feet."

The old living-room of the cabin had been more leniently dealt with.

Sandy's passion for windows had been indulged, but its furnishings were designed for comfort without shock to Martin's habits. The kitchen in the lean-to, also windowed to the limit of space, had been given over to the imagination--nothing else could possibly have accounted for it--of Marcia Lowe. Shining rows of things never dreamed of in The Hollow hung on the walls or graced the shelves. The future might prove them, but the present wreathed them in the charm of mystery. The women came and looked upon them in silent wonder and talked of them afterward in hushed voices. A good-sized range, also, stood where once the dirty hearth was the only shrine to which the family food was intrusted during preparation. Even Sandy approached this innovation with ingrained reluctance, but Marcia Lowe was overcoming his timidity and Cynthia had already conquered its mysteries and was instructing Martin.

The greatest change on the Morley place, however, was the one-time shed bedroom of Sandy. The first time Sandy entered the crumbling shanty such a wave of bitterness and depression engulfed him that he realized he must either reclaim it or it would triumph over him. To tear it down would not have solved the problem; its absence would have been a more final acknowledgment of his defeat. The years of fear, loneliness, and want were ever to be vital realities of his life; the shed was the setting of his childish agony and spiritual growth--oh, that was it! He must not stamp the poor shell from sight; he must redeem it as his patient suffering had redeemed him. He must make it a place to which those he loved, those who needed him, might come knowing that welcome and understanding awaited them.

It seemed a miracle to see the dusty, crumbling place evolve into that bright study with its big, open fireplace, outside chimney, and the sacred window-seat. Overhead were two small bedrooms, opening into each other--Martin's and Sandy's. Plain, severe rooms they were; rooms into which the morning sun shone and into which the setting sun glowed when nature smiled. On the shingle roof the rain pattered musically, and no winter cold could conquer the heat which a certain drum stove in Martin's room managed to create and diffuse. On Martin's stand beside his narrow bed a lamp stood and near it a Bible. Martin had learned again to pray and often Sandy read the sacred book to him respecting always the fiction as to poor eyes and ignoring the illiteracy which the old man bitterly and secretly deplored.

At last Cynthia entered the study after a minute inspection of the house. The breakfast dishes were washed and put away; Martin was neat and orderly. His bed had been made and Sandy's was untouched.

"Still away!" whispered the girl and sank upon the window-seat while a thrill of pleasure brought the slow smile to the sensitive lips.

"Oh, the pretty day!" Then a desire to set the place in perfect order for Sandy's possibly near-return caused her to spring up and dart quickly from place to place, straightening a picture here, flicking the dust off the shelves and chairs, and lastly attacking the cluttered desk which had not been touched since the master went away.

Sandy was not orderly by instinct. Dirt distressed him, but superficial chaos seemed never to disturb him. He could lay his hand on whatever he wanted amid the layers of papers, books, and writing material.

"It's right Sandyish," murmured Cynthia; "I wonder if he will--mind?"

Never before had she thought of arranging the desk. Carefully, almost breathlessly, she piled some magazines in one place; some papers in another. The pens and pencils were stuck together in the yawning mouth of a particularly fierce silver gargoyle who evidently had been created to devour such articles, and then--at the bottom of the mass Cynthia came upon a book which had been quite hidden from sight. It was an open book; a book marked at a certain place. There was a strange familiarity about the book which caused the girl to take it up with trembling surprise. The blue and gold cover recalled emotions long since forgotten. How could she know that Sandy had scoured many a Boston book store for just that edition, causing the proprietors much annoyance and trouble?

"Pilgrim's Progress!"

Then backing to the window-seat, Cynthia sat down and feasted her eyes first upon the cover, then upon the words marked by an illuminating pencil:

Without doubt her designs were bad. But stay, now you talk of her, methinks I either have seen her, or have read some story of her. . . .

Doth she not speak very smoothly and give you a smile at the end of a sentence?

The book fell from Cynthia's hands and lay motionless on her lap. Her fair face raised itself rigidly and the clear eyes looked, not at the cheerful, home-room, but back through the years: the sombre, shabby years--until they caught and held a girl of twelve demanding something--something so tremendous!--from a poor, trembling boy but a little older than herself! Then the old, half-doubting promise sounded and--a kiss fell upon Madam Bubble's lifted mouth!

"Oh!" The word came on a shuddering sigh and the fixed eyes faltered in their rapt look. A flood of rosy colour spread from brow to chin, and shame--not joy--claimed Cynthia Walden. Understanding rushed upon her, a blind, hideous, wrong understanding, but none the less terrible.

Cynthia had forgotten the shadow of her parentage--for many years it had sunk into insignificance. The years had ignored it, no call had come for its recognition, but now--she understood. She had always been more the daughter of her bad father than of her sad mother! That was why she, a little girl, had spoken so to Sandy and brought that strange look to his face! She had not comprehended it then, but she remembered it now! It confronted her like a tangible thing. Because she was her father's daughter Smith Crothers had--kissed her! Men wanted to kiss her! On that fearsome night of the fire Crothers had only shocked and wounded the outer fold of Cynthia's soul; the innermost shrine had been guarded by the woman Cynthia was by and by to become; but now Cynthia felt she _was_ that woman and all subterfuge was denied.

Sandy understood. He had not forgotten. Out in his big, free world he had learned what Madam Bubbles were and still he had come back and been kind to her! Sandy never forgot. Big, brave, and tender, he had set himself to the task of keeping his word and fulfilling his vision. He had shielded poor Molly--he had told her the pitiful story without its gruesome details! He had come back to Lost Mountain to help the men and women and save the baby-things! He had come home to--keep his word with her, with Madam Bubble! That was why he was so gentle, so thoughtful.

"Oh! oh!" The moan was almost a wail, but no tear dimmed the large eyes.

"The Biggest of Them All!" Then the strained face relaxed and a glory touched it.

"But I--I can be next biggest," she faltered. "You are right noble--but I can help you, Sandy!"

Then very reverently the book was replaced upon the desk and a pencil taken from the gargoyle's mouth. Clearly, distinctly, another passage was traced by a wavering mark:

The man in the cage, the man and his dream, the man that cut his way through his enemies--the biggest of them all!

Sandy was to read those words by and by with varied emotions!

Then, having marked and turned to the page originally left open, Cynthia drew herself up and looked about the dear room as if taking a last look before going on a long journey.

And so Sandy came upon her. He had arrived at The Forge earlier in the day and had walked up The Way because his heart was full of the joy of life and he wanted to be alone and think his thoughts. He had been so lonely without his father, Lost Mountain, his people and--Cynthia! Not even the love and gratitude he held for Levi Markham and Matilda could hold him long from his own, without regret. And they were coming to him soon--the Markhams--they were coming for the holidays and he must make ready!

Noiselessly he entered his study and stood for a moment revelling in the sight of the girl of his thoughts, materializing before his amazed eyes. He could hardly believe his senses; the day, the place, were bewitched, and he had been so hungry for--just this! Unconsciously he stretched out his arms and his strong, dark face was flushed; his serious eyes glad and kind.

"Little Cyn!"

She turned, and her colour faded. Pale, imploring, she almost ran to him.

"Sandy!"

Now that she had understood and triumphed she could afford to be kind, too, and strong and brave. Something in the frank, unflinching eyes warned Sandy to content himself with the outstretched hands, although the soul of him yearned to hold the girl to him.

"You are glad to see me back, lil' Cyn?"

The old intonation thrilled the listener, but her eyes held true.