And it was a few nights after the night that Tod Greeley, with Marcia Lowe and Cynthia tucked comfortably away in the back seat of his carry-all, started on their trip, that Lans Treadwell and Sandy Morley sat before the fire in the study and had their talk--the talk that illumined the path on ahead for Sandy.

"Old fellow!" exclaimed Lans, taking the cushions from the window-seat and tossing them back again from where he stood in the middle of the room; "never _place_ sofa pillows--chuck 'em! Only by so doing can you give that free and easy grace that distinguishes a Frat cosy corner from a drawingroom torture chamber."

Every cushion that Treadwell tossed seemed to strike with a thud on Sandy's heart. It was as if Treadwell were hurting little Cyn as she sat in her window-seat with her dear face turned toward them.

"Come, sit down, Lans. You are as nervous as a ghost-candle."

"Thanks!" Treadwell took a chair across the hearth from his host.

"There's a devil of a storm rising out of doors."

"They're right common this season of the year. About six or seven years ago there was one up here that came mighty near ending the existence of a good many--it did carry one poor old darky woman away."

"That's cheerful! Sand, forgive me if I seem brutal, but do you know I believe the cooking up here is giving me indigestion. I wouldn't mind this if I didn't have your anatomy in mind, too. Those--what do you call them?"

"Ash cakes?"

"Yes. They were, to put it mildly, damnable."

Sandy laughed.

"They were right ashy," he admitted. "Sally is old and careless."

"She'll murder you, if you don't look out."

Sandy kicked a log farther back on the hearth and the room was filled with rosy light and warmth.

"Your father doesn't seem particularly drawn to me, Sand. Does he always retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his--his evening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!"

Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his own thoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him.

"I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactly as he chooses. You must not take offence."

"Certainly not. Only I do not want to feel I drive him away or deprive you of his companionship. Ever since I told the joke about that bottle of perfumery he seems to avoid me."

"Father hasn't a sense of humour," Sandy ventured, striving to keep the bitterness of resentment from his voice.

"The devil!" ejaculated Lans. "That log spits like a hag. A spark fell straight on my ankle."

"Excuse it," Sandy murmured, smiling as Lans nursed his silk-enclosed ankle.

"Hang it all, Sand! I've got to get back to civilization!"

Sandy bent over the fire to conceal his feelings. "Not to-night, surely," he said.

"No, but in a day or so. Morley, I--I want to tell you something.

Tell you why I cut and came up here right in the middle of things at home."

The storm outside pounded on the windows; the fire flared and chuckled crisply. Sandy thought about Cynthia, wondered where she was, and then he became conscious of something Treadwell was saying.

"There was a time, Sand, when I couldn't have come to you with this. I thought you were such an infernal puritan--but Aunt Olive has told me of that--that little affair of yours which ended so--well so happily tragical, and it has made you seem more human. Of course there could have been no better way out for you and--her, and Uncle Levi was a brick to overlook it. I've liked him better for it, but my affair is another matter."

Sandy gazed dumbly at Treadwell and could not frame words to call the other to a halt. Not comprehending what Lans knew or misunderstood, having no intention of explaining--he simply stared and then turned to mend the fire.

"My affair--is different. You know about it--partially?"

"I've heard something. It was none of my business." A sternness crept into Sandy's voice which Treadwell entirely misunderstood.

"Well, because it was possible for me to come to you; because of all my friends, you seemed in this hour of trouble, the only one I _could_ come to, I want you to make it your business, Sand."

The low-pitched, pleading voice awoke sympathy. It was that tone and manner which had caused people to straighten out the snarls of Lans Treadwell's life from babyhood up. There was capitulation. It was as if he had said: "I deserve no pity, no comfort, but--give them to me!"

It awoke all the spontaneous desire for his happiness in every tender-hearted person who knew and liked him.

"I'm not indifferent, Lans. I only meant that in your friendship and mine there have always been reservations. You took me up because of your generous friendliness; you helped me mightily. I never felt the slightest inclination to penetrate into your private life, and my own was of such a nature that I was obliged to live it alone. My years away from the mountains were years of preparation to come back. Every hand held out to me was but a power to help me on my course. I have never--except recently with the Markhams--ever taken anything personally. I have always recognized that I was called to serve my people; I have been grateful, but I have never appropriated."

Treadwell looked hard at the fine, dark face touched now to vivid beauty by the rich glow of the fire.

"And I know few fellows who have won out as you have," he said admiringly. "You have that in you, about you, that attracts and compels. People trust you, like you--need you when a pinch comes."

"Thank you, Lans."

"And God knows I want you, need you, now!"

Sandy put out his hand, Treadwell gripped it, then both leaned back in their chairs and the story came, set to the wild strains of the mountain storm.

"She was one of those little creatures born to be the plaything of Fate. When she was seventeen she married Jack Spaulding--he was part genius, but more fool. He was caught by the girl's spirituality and brightness and he couldn't any more comprehend her than a raw-boned Indian could understand a water sprite. To him she was a woman he wanted--nothing more. He got her and when he wasn't lost in the maze of invention he permitted her--Good God!--he permitted her to supply the needs and yearnings of the--the man in him. Poor, little entrapped soul! She struggled between duty and loathing until her Guardian Angel saved her. When Spaulding was going through his ups and downs of fortune she stood by him. His downs were oftener and longer than his ups and she was pure grit and a bully little sport. Then he got on his feet with a vengeance. He could give her anything and, like a big, blundering savage he began to load her down with _things_ and make his demands for payment and she--up and left him!"

Sandy felt that the heat of the room was oppressive, but he held his position and flinched not.

"Poor, little white-souled girl! She left him and tackled life with her wits and her two pretty hands. I met her during my senior year.

She was reporting for a Boston paper, getting starvation wages; living like a bird in two rooms of a high-pitched house off in a desolate corner of town and thanking God for her--escape and freedom. Well, I lost my heart to her and you know how I and my set feel about certain things. Laws are all right for the--herd; a present help for the helpless; protection for the happy, and all the rest, but they should be handled wisely and discriminately by the intelligent minority.

She--Marian Spaulding held the same views!"

"Why--didn't she divorce him--her husband?" Somehow the question sounded crude and unnecessary on Sandy's lips.

"For form's sake, she tried. Spaulding would not let her. He was an ugly devil and he just couldn't understand any woman snapping her fingers at his big money. He meant to starve her out, but he--well, he got left!

"I took rooms out near Cambridge. At first we were--friends! I wanted her to have time and quiet to think it out her own way. Learn to trust me; come to me of her own accord and because she was large enough to choose the braver course."

The heat was stifling Sandy, but he gripped the arms of his chair and kept still.

"She--she came to me willingly--three months ago! I've known and she has known, Sand, such bliss as only free, untrammeled souls can know who have gone through hell fire and proven themselves!"

Sandy almost sprang up. "You won't mind," he said jerkily, "if I raise the window? The room is like a furnace."

When he came back to his place, Lans, head bent forward in clasped hands, was ready for him.

"Women are all alike in some ways. They never dare let go entirely and plunge! They hold on to something, get frightened, and scurry back to tradition. Three weeks ago Spaulding sent for her--for Marian. He'd lost everything; was ill and needed her. She went! I found a note--that's all."