Never had Lans Treadwell been so dramatic nor such a fool, but he had caught little Cyn, and before she realized what had happened or why she had permitted it to happen, she drove away with Treadwell over the hills one day to see some land Crothers had urged him to look at and, a storm overtaking them, they were delayed in an old cabin where they sought shelter over night and then and there Lans brought her to see that for all their sakes they should be married before going home.

"Married?" gasped Cynthia, as if the word were foreign; "married! me, little Cyn? Why, only _women_ marry!"

"And you are a woman, sweet!" Even then Lans did not touch her, though she looked more divine with her big eyes shining and the blessed smile parting her lips than he had ever seen her.

"I--a woman? Well, I reckon I am--but it seems mighty queer when you first think of it. And--the folks would say evil things of me because you took care of me and didn't risk my neck on the bad roads in the dark? What could they-all say?"

For the life of him Lans could not frame the words with that lovely face turned to his. "You must trust me, Cynthia. I will protect you and you must protect me."

"I--protect you? You are right funny. What could they-all do to you?"

"They could horsewhip me; tar and feather me----"

"Oh! no!" And now the light faded from the girl's face. Once at The Forge a man was treated so--yes! there was something about a woman, too!

The storm had raged all night. Lans made a fire and laughed and joked the dark lonely hours through. After midnight Cynthia fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and Lans placed his overcoat under her head while he smoked by the fire and grew--as imagination fed upon itself--into a being so immaculate and saint-like that the morning found him prepared for the final and dramatic climax. He awoke Cynthia, touched her as if she was a spirit, and took her to the little town known as Sudley's Gap and there--married her!

Cynthia was excited and worn from her night's experience, but the ceremony and Lans's manner made it all seem like a new play. They were always playing together, he and she. Big brother and little sister lived in the moment and had no care for the past or future. They had breakfast together, after the visit to the missionary, and it was afternoon before they started for home. At last Cynthia grew very quiet--the play had tired her; she was frightened and unhappy. How could what had happened secure Lans from the anger of The Hollow folks, if staying away were wrong? It was all very foolish. They could have gone to Sandy and explained. Already Sandy stood in the girl's life as safety and strength.

Just then Lans turned and looked at her. To him it was beyond comprehension that a girl of nineteen could be what Cynthia was.

Ignorant she might be, surely was, but she was vital and human; she had witnessed life and its meaning in The Hollow--she was primitive and childish--but she understood!

Lans felt himself, by that time, to be about the highest-minded man any one could hope to find. He had practised great self-repression; he had accepted his future life suddenly, but with all its significant responsibilities. When he reached The Hollow there would be tumult, no doubt, but every man and woman there would count on the hot, impulsive Southern blood and, after the first shock, would glory in a Hertford who could carry things with such a high hand and, withal, a clean hand!

Laying the reins down over the dash-board, Lans turned to Cynthia, his passion gaining power over him as the sense of possession lashed it sharply. The pretty big-eyed girl was his! He had secured her by the sacredest ties, but for that very reason he need withhold himself no longer.

"Wife!" he whispered. "Wife, come; sweet, come!"

This was no play. The call awakened no response, but fear laid its guarding hand upon the girl as it had on that terrible night when Smith Crothers asked of her what Treadwell was now seeking in a different way, but in the same language.

"No!" Cynthia shuddered, shrinking from him. "No!"

The denial had awakened evil in Crothers; it aroused the best in Treadwell. For a moment he looked at the wild, fear-filled eyes and then a mighty pity surged over him.

"I--I would not hurt you for all the world, little Cyn," he said, taking up the reins. "I've done the best I could for you, dear; when you can you will come to me--won't you? In the meantime it's 'brother and little sister!'"

Come to him! Thus Sandy had spoken, too! The memory hurt.

The strain of the Markham blood rushed hotly, at the instant, in Lans's veins. It gave him courage and strength to forget--the Hertfords.

He took Cynthia to Trouble Neck and manfully told Marcia Lowe what had occurred. The little doctor, worn by anxiety, was almost prostrated.

"No one knows but what Cynthia was here all last night," she said.

"I've lied to Tod Greeley. I told him you had not taken Cynthia; that she was ill with headache."

"Now!" Cynthia laughed lightly; "you see we need not have done that silly thing at Sudley's Gap."

Marcia Lowe began to cry softly.

"Oh! dear," she faltered, "but Smith Crothers knows and Sandy Morley, too. Oh! I have been so blind, so foolish, and you have been such mad children."

"I am going to Sandy at once," Lans explained. The plain common-sense atmosphere of the cabin and the little doctor's evident suffering were calming Treadwell's hot Southern blood and giving a touch of stern prosaic grimness to the business.

Cynthia, once she was safe with Marcia Lowe, was so unflatteringly happy that Lans Treadwell might well be pardoned for thinking her lacking in ordinary mentality, and this thought was like a dash of ice water on his growing chilliness. He became awkward and nervous. He felt like a man who had run headlong to a goal only to find that it was the wrong one, with no strength or power to retrace his steps he owed to defeat and failure, and in that mood he sought Sandy.

CHAPTER XXIII

Marcia Lowe was mistaken. Sandy did not know. He knew that Treadwell had not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was now manager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had gone to look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm had naturally detained him.

The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised and amused Sandy. Full well he realized Crothers' motive, and he could afford to laugh at that, but he felt annoyed and hurt at Lans's weak falling into the trap. The disloyalty to himself did not affect Sandy, he was far too sensible and simple a man to care deeply for that, and it somehow made it easier for him to reconcile his conscience to the growing distrust and contempt he had for Treadwell, but he disliked the idea of Crothers using his friend to gain his mean ends.

"Lans is not one to tie up to," he said to himself, and then smiled at the quaint expression which he had learned from Levi. "And to-morrow I will tell him that I must make ready for the Markhams."

The day after Cynthia's marriage Sandy had gone early to the buildings.

He and Martin had worked hard; settled a difficulty among the men, which they both felt confident Crothers had instigated, and, upon reaching home late in the afternoon Sandy was told that Old Andrew Townley was ill and wanted him. Liza Hope had sent word.

"I reckon you can wait to eat," Sally Taber had suggested; "ole Andy has been dyin' with consumption ever since dat time when he went to The Forge an' got baptized in his wife's night shift--him not being able to get a robe! Andy took a mighty stiff chill that-er-day an' it war like a finger pintin' the way to his grave. Andy war thirty when he waddled into de Branch in dem swaddling clothes, an' he's over ninety now. I expect he can hol' on till you've tended to yo' stummick."

But Sandy had not waited. He went to Andrew and found the old man wandering on to the end of his journey in a very happy frame of mind.

He was, to himself, no longer the weak creature dying in his poor cabin. Lying on the comfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilingly gazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer had designed, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helping another up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting by the bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm young ones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind.

"Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder!

See that-er-light?"

"Yes, old friend, I see the light."

Sandy bent low and whispered gently.

"That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! He war a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Hold fast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's been right heavy goin'--but----"

The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under the shoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position.

"Do you see the--light, old friend?"

"I--see--the star!"

"Yes. The star and the light, Andy?"

"Yes--that's--home!"

Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life so gently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowing that the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by The Appointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed and reverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed the thin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next duty with a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted by his kind words.

Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did not mention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having his son to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandy disliked to shadow the joy.

"Suppose we read a bit," he suggested when the two were seated in the study. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"