"I mean--just that."

"Oh! Oh! why sometimes I think that soon God will say, 'lil' girl, your task is done. Run back home now! Run back to your hills.' Maybe I can go back with you!"

A gayety rang in the sweet voice that almost reduced Matilda to tears.

The abandon and inconsequence were so oddly mingled with the strange determined strength that the elderly woman was confused and irrational.

The wayward, wild creature of the hills, ensnared in the net woven by Lans's blind passion and irresponsibility, seemed so incapable of fulfilling any role that demanded the recognition of her as a wife in this superficial environment that Matilda felt immoral and sacrilegious. She wanted to say, instead of leaving it to a higher power, "Your task is done, lil' girl! Run back to your hills!" but instead she said brokenly:

"You will come to Bretherton?"

"Indeed, yes; dear lady!"

"Perhaps you will go out with me to-morrow if I stay over night in town?"

"If--oh! if they will let me. But you see, there are a mighty lot of things to do--I'm learning!"

"Good-bye then, dear child."

And that night, on the paper of a quiet little hotel, Matilda wrote a brief note to Lost Hollow. She addressed it to Levi.

I'm going to stay on a spell. I never felt better in my life. It was the thinking that life didn't need me any more, that was running me down. It's awful foolish for old folks to let go of things. By the way, I called at Olive Treadwell's to-day and saw Lans's wife. She's real fascinating and real good looking. Brother, I want you to reconsider about leaving Lans out of your will. He's coming out real strong and blood is blood! Tell Sandy this girl, Cynthia, sends kind regards and is enjoying her stay in Boston better than she expected.

This letter had a marvellous effect upon Levi and Sandy.

"What do you think of that?" Levi exclaimed shaking with laughter. "If that ain't spunk and real grit."

Sandy was looking out of the study window and did not reply.

"That's the old New England spirit. Never say die and all the rest!"

Levi chuckled.

"Thank God for it!" was all Sandy said in return.

CHAPTER XXVI

The work God had sent Cynthia to do came to hand very shortly after Miss Markham's return to Bretherton. Cynthia had spent one blessed day at the quiet old farm, then Mrs. Treadwell and she went down together and stayed over one night, and once Lans ran down and had an hour's talk with his Aunt 'Tilda before she slipped back to Lost Hollow and Cynthia's task came for her doing.

Lans's visit had sent Matilda to her knees beside the four-post bedstead in the room that had once been Caroline Markham's.

"Caroline," the trembling old lips had breathed, "it was _your_ boy who came home to-day. _Your_ boy!"

For Lans quite frankly and naturally had told his story. The hot blood of the South was well in command and the light of reason was in the sorry eyes.

"Aunt 'Tilda, all my life I've been excused and forgiven for my faults--bat I'm going to work my way out now, God helping me! I'm going to take whatever punishment and joy comes. Up there in the hills I was like a devil caged. I had passed through a trouble and been worsted; I saw Morley standing where I should have stood, had I been less a fool years ago. I couldn't seem to see, up there, how he deserved all that was his. I was just maddened. I wanted to get on top and--I let go myself! Cynthia seemed a child at first but all of a sudden she flashed upon all that was evil in me--and I went blindly ahead until I stood among them all in Morley's cabin. They all seemed so big and fine and true and I saw--myself! All at once I found myself wanting more than I had ever wanted anything in my life--to make good! I took my own way.

Some day you will all understand. That little girl is going to have her choice by and by--I only wanted my fair chance to win out. When she makes her choice her soul will be hers--I promised Sandy Morley that!"

It was this that had sent Matilda to her knees beside the bed of Lans's mother.

And one evening--it was two days before Christmas, Lans took Cynthia and his Aunt Olive Treadwell to a theatre in Boston. The play was a popular one and, being late, Lans was obliged to take a box in order to get seats. Cynthia felt and looked like a child. The excitement and brilliancy brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes dance. She hardly spoke and only now and then heard what her companions said.

"Lans," Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is Marian Spaulding in the tenth row!"

This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned and looked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in black was looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thin face remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthralling play drove it, for the time being, into shadow.

"Blue is Cynthia's colour," Mrs. Treadwell next remarked apropos of nothing. "She's right handsome, Lans. You ought to be less a fool and behave normally. She'd make a mighty sensation if----" But this did not interest the absorbed third party in the box at all.

When the play was over and the audience was crowding into the lobby, Cynthia noticed the girl of the tenth row near them. She was not looking at them, but she gave the impression of listening to what they said.

Again the face claimed Cynthia's attention.

"Brother," she said softly to Lans, "is that a friend of yours? She looks mighty sad."

Lans gave another sharp start and rather abruptly replied:

"I knew her once. Come, little sister, that is our number being called.

We must not hold up the line of taxis. Aunt Olive is out of sight."

Strangely enough Cynthia did not dream of the play that night; nor did the sad, fair face of Lans's one-time friend hold part in her visions, but she did dream of Lost Mountain as she had not dreamed of it in many a night. She was back among the dear, plain home scenes. She was planning with Sandy the Home-school; she was in the cabin at Trouble Neck with the little doctor. The sun was shining in the broad, opened door and she and Marcia Lowe were sitting where the warm brightness flooded them. And at that juncture of the dream something very vivid occurred. Quite distinctly she heard the little doctor say:

"In all the world there is nothing so important as this, Cyn. Remember it as long as you live."

Upon awakening, Cynthia, in her still, dark room, found herself haunted by the dream and the little doctor's words. They were startling, yet strangely familiar. When, before, had Marcia Lowe spoken them; what had she meant? Then suddenly it came back to Cynthia. It was about little children!

"Our loves and our poor selves!" Marcia Lowe had often said, and especially when she and Cynthia were working over the little ones of the hill cabins, "what do they matter compared to the sacred lives of these helpless creatures?"

She had been quite fierce about it once when she had told Liza Hope that God would hold her responsible if she brought any more blighted souls into existence through Mason's passion and her own weak yielding.

Lying awake and trembling in the small room off of Olive Treadwell's, Marcia Lowe's words returned with sharp insistence and kept Cynthia wakeful for many an hour.

The next morning she was alone when the maid came to her and said a lady wanted to see her on very important business and had asked that they might be undisturbed for a half hour. Cynthia, puzzled and half afraid, bade the girl bring the caller to the sitting-room in which she then was.

What followed was so vital and impressive that all her life Cynthia was to recall the setting of the scene. The whiteness of the sunlight streaming into the east windows, the deep red of the wall paper, the tick of the marble clock on the shelf, and the crackle of the cannel coal fire on the hearth. While she waited for the visitor she was unconsciously preparing for the part and the lines of what was to follow. By the time the slow, light steps were at the room door, Cynthia seemed to know who the stranger was. The maid closed the door after the guest and then Cynthia said quietly to the tall, black-robed girl:

"You--are--Marian Spaulding!"

"He--he has told you?"

"No. Mrs. Treadwell--told me! Please sit down."

They faced each other with only a few feet between them. Cynthia was obsessed with but one conscious thought--she must go on as she was led; say what she would be told to say. She could not think for herself. But the stranger--distracted and ill at ease, leaped at conclusions; hurried to her goal and took no heed of the obstacles in her path.

"I did not know until last night that he--that Lans had a sister," she said. "Our own affairs were so engrossing and--and exclusive--at that time!"

Marian Spaulding had an odd habit of spacing her words as if the sharp breaths in between were dashes to emphasize her thought. "I knew Mrs.