"Oh! so glad. 'Tis a mighty empty room you leave, Sandy Morley, when you go away."

"Cynthia--I wonder if I dare tell you something?"

"Yes." It were better now and over with!

"Do you remember that once I made a promise to you, dear?"

This was unfortunate, but the girl took it without a quiver of the white lids.

"All my life, since manhood came to me, and it came early, little girl, I have lived and dreamed of the hour when--I might keep that promise.

I have waited because you seem still a child to me, dear, but I--want you! I want the child of you--I will hold it sacred and win the woman of you by and by. Do you not remember how in those old, old days it was you who taught me, awoke my imagination and--helped me to my own?

Dear lil' Cyn--help me now! Help me help these dear people, yours and mine! I need you so, sweetheart, and I will be good to you! Marry me, lil' Cyn, marry me right away and let us go on together! I can do so much for you and yours--sweet----"

But Sandy got no farther. The hands in his wrenched themselves free and sought his shoulders. The very frankness and simplicity of the gesture sent a chill to Sandy's heart.

"Big, good Sandy!" There was a subtle plea in glance and words. The girlish need was driving the desperate woman back and out of sight.

Cynthia could not kill the truth that had been born within her, but she could blind it, stun it and still keep for her own what the childish craving demanded.

"Big, good Sandy! Please be my Sandy, like you were a brother. I would be so lonely without you; I would miss this--this dear place mighty bad--but if you say such words, if you forget I am still lil'

Cyn, why don't you see--I cannot come up this-er-way any more?"

So perfect was the attempt that it took all the girl's pride and strength to hold it. It was a bit overdone and Sandy fell back a step with a memory that Cynthia would never have resurrected had she had her way.

"I--am not worthy of you, Cynthia. I had forgotten, dear. You see, for seven years I have lived where such things did not matter; I have learned that they do _not_ matter when all is said and done. Can you not trust me and forget that a Walden and a Morley are different----"

"Oh! Sandy!" and now the white, white face turned scarlet--"you think that of me?"

"It's in the blood of us all, Cynthia, but you and I, by forgetting it--can do so much."

"It is not that, Sandy."

"I know, dear, that I am old beside you--I know that I dare much when I say I am willing to take you, child as you are, and run the risk of making you love me while the woman of you--grows! I will help it grow--God help me! How I will glory in the task and if I fail----"

Sandy had drawn her hands from his shoulders and now held them fast and close.

"I will make you free, set you as free as you are to-day, my white blossom girl! You cannot understand; but God hears me and I swear it!"

Cynthia did _not_ understand, but his fine passion flooded her soul with white light.

"How wonderful you are," she whispered. "You stand out big and high like our mountain----"

At that word Sandy closed his eyes, for he dared not look upon the dear, slow-smiling lips.

"But, Sandy, you are covered with--with mist like Lost Mountain sometimes is. Let me find you, Sandy, not as you would help me find you, but in my own way. Will you do this for--lil' Cyn?"

Without opening his eyes Sandy drew the clinging hands to his lips and kissed them.

"When you find me, dear heart, dear heart, will you tell me or give me a sign?"

"Yes, Sandy."

"And now--where are you going, Cynthia?"

For the girl was turning from him.

"Just down The Way. I must watch with Aunt Ann. She is a mighty troublesome lil' child these days. Good-bye."

They looked tenderly, frankly, in each other's eyes and then the girl was gone.

And that night Cynthia sat beside Ann Walden and kept watch and guard while faithful Sally slept. The bedchamber was very quiet and only a tallow candle lighted the gloom. The figure stretched out upon the bed was deathlike in its rigid motionlessness, and Cynthia's hand lay over the thin, old wrinkled ones for fear in a drowsy moment the woman might elude her.

It was past midnight when Ann Walden stirred and opened her eyes.

Cynthia was alert at once, but the light that shone on the old face revealed an expression which had not rested there for many a day.

"Queenie!"

A cold horror overcame Cynthia, but she held her position and whispered:

"Yes."

"Go to bed, honey. I'm--I'm sorry."

"Never mind, dear." Cynthia meant to play the old sad game that was the only one possible with the poor creature on the bed.

"I reckon it was--Thorndyke Bothwell over by Susie May Lanley's, wasn't it?"

"Yes, dear."

"Why didn't you tell me, Queenie? Why didn't you-all trust me. I--I didn't mean to--be hard."

"No, dear. Never mind. Go--to sleep now."

"Thorndyke Bothwell, he went away--but there must be--some one to remember. The--letter--take it--to----"

Then a spasm passed over the grim face upon the pillow. The fleeting sanity was vanishing--"The hearthstone--her--down at Trouble----"

The candle flickered up luridly. The weak voice of the old woman shook and the eyes lost the lustre.

"You must bide with her--at Trouble----"

Cynthia could not understand; she had never seen the light fade from the face of one she loved, so the fixed stare, the cessation of speech, did not alarm her.

"See, dear Aunt Ann, I will put my head down on your pillow, so! There now! Shut your eyes right close, and I'll sing you to sleep, honey."

The candle decided to splutter once more, and give up the struggle.

The long wick curled over, the tiny beam faded, and was--gone.

Through the long night watches, May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed.