Morley and Treadwell stared at the two faces and into their benumbed consciousness something vital struggled to life. It brought a gleam to Lans's eyes; a groan of surrender to Sandy's lips! The contrite voice was going on and on.

"There was no marriage certificate. There had been an unhappy engagement between my uncle and Ann Walden--he, poor, timid, gentle soul, dared not speak at the proper moment, he dreaded giving pain, and he married Cynthia's mother privately, and before things could be made plain--he died up in the hills, serving men! The man that married them went away--only a year ago he came back; recently Mr. Greeley drove over to Sudley's Gulch to make a will for this man; Cynthia and I went with him. The man died a few days ago. Among his papers was a notebook in which was recorded the marriage of Queenie Walden and Theodore Starr! The man was a--a magistrate, the thing was legal--Little Cyn is--my niece!"

An empty room never seems so still as one in which living, wordless men and women are held by breathless silence. Treadwell dared not speak.

He seemed a stranger; one who had no right to be there. Cynthia's eyes were lifted to Sandy Morley's face and did not fall away. Having said what she had come to say, Marcia Lowe held out her written words of proof and waited. After a long pause Cynthia spoke and her voice was electrical in its effect.

"Sandy," she said, going close to him and holding him with her clear gaze and slow, brave smile, "you know I did not mean--to do wrong?"

"Yes, little Cyn."

"I'm right glad I'm--I'm my dear father's child. All my life he's been a happy name to me--and I'm mighty proud to be his, really. I'm going to be brave for him and my mother! Sandy--I am not afraid--I am not afraid!" The words came slowly, drawlingly but unbrokenly.

"My aunt," and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head of Marcia Lowe, "has told me many things--I understand right many things, now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me--but what's done, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If--if--my husband wants me--I am ready--to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!"

Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionless and white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hid her face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone in the middle of the room.

What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? But looking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrust died from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stood straight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was at last the final judge.

"Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do--want you! you are my wife! You are not afraid?"

Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others--he and she were all! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them.

"I am not afraid," she whispered. And before the light in her upraised eyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch.

"I, too, wish to help you--in my own way. Can you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Will you leave the hills with me--me alone?"

For an instant the sweet smile faded, but it was for the loss of her mountains; not her doubt of her husband which drove it away.

"Yes," she murmured.

Then Sandy found his way back from his place of torment and he strode to the two in the middle of the room. He laid his hand upon Treadwell's shoulder, and all the smouldering passion in his heart rang in his words.

"Lansing Treadwell, swear to me, that you will leave her soul to her own keeping until----"

Treadwell gave him a long, steady look.

"I swear!" he said.

"When--her hour comes to--understand and choose--let her be white and pure as she is now!"

"I swear it, Sandy Morley."

"Then," and now Sandy's eyes dimmed, "good-bye, little Cyn. You'll miss the mountains--but there are good, true hearts--down beyond The Way."

At this Marcia Lowe drew near:

"Little girl--come home! She is mine until you take her from Lost Hollow, Lansing Treadwell."

The hands that held Cynthia's let her free. A pause followed. Then:

"Good-night--good-night!" The pretty, pale face flushed tenderly.

"Good-night. And now come, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"

The sweet attempt at cheer all but crushed those who heard and understood.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Markhams came to Lost Mountain early in December. The weather was fair and mild and much of the time could be spent out of doors.

Matilda, frail but with that gentle tenacity of life that marks many women for longevity, settled at once into the semi-rough life of the cabin with innate delicacy and aptness. The rooms Sandy had so lovingly planned and furnished became _hers_ after the first day, and no truer compliment could have been paid her host than this homelike acceptance of his thoughtfulness. To see her soft, bright knitting in the sitting-room gave Sandy a positive thrill and when he came back, after a long day of tramping about with Levi, and found the dear, smiling woman awaiting him, he knew the first touch of the mother in his own home that had ever been his. And sorely the poor fellow needed it just then!

Levi, too, was a saving grace in those empty hours after Cynthia's going. Swelling with pride, he followed Sandy about from cabin to factory; from factory to Home-school. In vain he struggled to suppress any outward show of the pride and delight he took in everything he saw.

He sought to keep things upon a dull, business level, but exultation at times overcame him when Sandy was well out of sight. To Martin or Matilda he permitted himself a bit of relaxation.

"Well," he had said to Martin after the first strangeness had worn off, "so you are the father of this boy, eh?"

"I am, sir!"

The pride that rang in Morley's voice was never veiled, and his native dignity was touching.

"I reckon any one might doubt it, sir, seeing him and me, but he's mine and I'm his."

"Well, well!" Markham put his hand out frankly. "I hope you're grateful."

"I am mighty grateful, sir. Mornin' an' night I kneel an' thank my God, an' day in an' out I live the poor best I can, sir, my thankfulness."

Markham gripped the thin, hard hand appreciatively. He knew more of Martin than Martin suspected, for Marcia Lowe had made it her first duty, after the Markhams' arrival, to get into touch with them. Not Sandy alone had been the theme of the little doctor's discourse; Martin's grim and self-sacrificing fight in her cabin was given in detail with other happenings in The Hollow.

"Oh! they are so big and silent and patient," Miss Lowe had explained, "they cannot for one moment comprehend their own importance in the scheme of things. I feel it a duty to shine up their virtues."

Levi was deeply touched by all he heard, and when things puzzled him he gruffly insisted that he needed a walk to calm his nerves, and always it was the little doctor who straightened the tangle.

"Miss Interpreter," Markham dubbed her, and through her he became acquainted with Smith Crothers and Crothers' mark upon recent occurrences. Of course Levi knew of Lans Treadwell's visit to the hills. Markham was not a superstitious man, but he had remarked to Matilda before they came to Lost Hollow that it "looked like the hand of God." After a seance or so at Trouble Neck, Levi changed his mind.

"I tell you, Matilda," he confided by her fireside one night after a particularly satisfying day with Sandy, "we take for granted that God Almighty's hand is the only guiding in the final analysis, but the devil gets in a twist now and again, and I guess he had more to do with Lansing's heading up here than God did. Once old Nick got the boy here he did his best to use him, too, but from what I can learn Lans spunked up at the end and showed himself more of a man than we might have expected. He played a good deal of havoc in a few short weeks, though."

Marcia Lowe had eliminated Sandy from poor Cynthia's romance or tragedy. She had put a purely commercial valuation upon Crothers'

interference, for the look on Sandy's face the night he bade Cynthia good-bye haunted the little doctor and would to the last day of her life. Before it her eyes had fallen, and whenever she recalled the scene a silence fell upon her. No thought or word could express what she, too late, surmised, and her lips guarded the sanctity of Sandy's secret.

When Levi confided Marcia Lowe's interpretations to his sister she was very unresponsive. She listened but made no comment other than:

"Sandy works too hard. He looks real peaked to me. It don't count to your credit, Levi, or his either, for that matter, if he feels he's got to pay you back in bone and muscle past a certain point."