"Oh! the old tree," Cynthia ran to it. For months and months she had forgotten it, and the secret it held in its dead heart. Yes, the box was there! The box in which lay the outbursts of a girl's fancy and imaginings. With a mischievous laugh Cynthia removed the old letters and put them in the bag that hung from a girdle at her waist. Then she walked on to the old Walden Place. There a shock awaited her. What had happened? The crumbling walls had fallen in many places; but there were props and scaffoldings, too! Sandy had begun his work of redemption on the Great House. It was to be the home of the Markhams, but the surprised onlooker could not know that the property, taken by the county for unpaid taxes, had been bought in by Levi Markham in Sandy's name.

"Dear old Stoneledge!" And then Cynthia sat down upon a fallen log and knew the heavy heartedness of one who arrives too late to receive the welcome that was hushed forever. But suddenly her face brightened. In the general demoralization a portion of the house still stood--it was the wing, the library!

The roof had caved in, but the Significant Room stood open and stark to the glittering winter sunlight! Reverent hands had removed the furniture, books, and pictures; the stark and staring walls, with their stained and torn paper, were bared to the gaze of every chance passerby. Suddenly, to the yearning heart of the onlooker, a miracle appeared. The scene of devastation disappeared; there was a fragrance of honeysuckle and yellow roses in the sharp air and, in a dim, sweet, old, sheltered room stood a little girl with patched gingham gown and long smooth-hanging braids of hair, gazing up at a portrait that no eyes but hers had ever seen. It was little Madam Bubble and she was lovingly, proudly, exultingly, looking at "The Biggest of Them All!"

Unheeded, the tears rained down the cheeks of the woman standing by the ruins of her old home; she stretched her arms out tremblingly as if to hold the vision to the exclusion of all the rest of life.

"Oh! my Sandy, you have indeed cut your way through your enemies. Oh!

my love; my dear, dear love."

How long she stood rapt in her vision Cynthia never knew. Her day of wonders enchanted and held her oblivious of weariness, hunger, or physical pain, but she must get to Trouble Neck; she must throw herself into the safe arms of the little doctor and--find peace and guidance.

Later they--the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady and she--would go to Sandy's cabin as they had that night when Lans had claimed her and then--well, beyond that Cynthia could not see!

At Trouble Neck another disappointment met her. The trim cabin was empty! The unlocked door gave way to the eager pressure; the sunny room was full of generous welcome, and a gleam of fire on the hearth showed that the little mistress had not been gone long.

Some people leave a room more vacant than others. Like the breath of perfume, after the flower has been removed, their personality and dearness linger, making one miss them more, and long for them more keenly. As a child might suffer at not finding its mother awaiting it at the close of day Cynthia suffered then. She wandered to the table on which lay the little doctor's work--a child's dress! Beside it was a medical book opened at a chapter on the diseases of--children. And on the widespread book lay an unsealed note addressed to--Tod Greeley!

A smile, a wan, understanding smile touched Cynthia's lips, but presently it softened into the dear, old, slow smile, and the girl bent and kissed the penciled name of the postmaster, for the dear, absent hand had rested there last!

There were bread and milk and bacon in the pantry, and with happy familiarity Cynthia made a meal for herself, and ate heartily. After this she went into the lean-to chamber and taking off her hat and wraps, lay down upon the couch, for she began to realize how weary she was. She slept several hours and was awakened by a step in the outer room. Thinking it was Marcia Lowe she raised herself and looked through the half-opened door. It was Tod Greeley! He had lighted the oil lamp and stood by the table with Marcia's note in his hand. Over and again he read it, then folded it slowly and put it in his breast pocket.

A change had been wrought upon Greeley. He stood straight and firm; he was shaven and shorn and neatly dressed; his face was happier, too, than Cynthia had ever seen it. The lazy good humour was merged into purpose and dignity.

"To-morrow, then!" Cynthia heard him murmur; "to-morrow then!"

He extinguished the light and passed from the house, leaving Cynthia more lonely than she had been since she left the train that morning.

For an hour or two Cynthia struggled with herself. Abstractedly she knew that she ought not to go to Sandy Morley alone. Something that some one--she could not remember who or where--taught her, warned her that it was not right for her to leave Trouble Neck that evening.

"But why?" asked the great longing, "why?"

"You are Lans Treadwell's wife; his wife!"

At this Cynthia laughed outright. That part of her life had touched her only as her awful experience with Crothers had done; except that Lans had gained her confidence in Man while Crothers had imperilled it.

The real self of Cynthia was pure and untouched; ready to offer now, to offer itself, upon the true altar of love and consecration. Nothing could change that; nothing could blind her to it; but over and through the knowledge ran the discord of suggestion left by the contact with convention, down, and far, from Lost Mountain.

It was eight o'clock when Cynthia gained her triumph over the claim upon her, and cloaked and hooded, started out.

She wore her own, old cloak and the red hood that Marcia Lowe's loving fingers had knitted for her. Sandy must not be disappointed in her; it must be little Cyn, not the Cynthia Lans Treadwell had claimed, who was to put forth her appeal for help.

The crisp, starry night was still and fine; the walk from Trouble Neck to Sandy's cabin brought the blood to the pale cheeks, light to the large eyes. How quiet the cabin was--and dark! Only one light shone forth and that was from the study. Cautiously Cynthia stepped close and looked in; the curtains were parted where a hasty hand had left them. Sandy, seated near the glowing fire, was painting at his easel.

After a long day's work in the open air he was indulging his fancy, forgetting the trials and disappointments of his life in the poor talent that was his. The canvas was so placed that the watcher from outside could see it plainly over the back bent toward it. A face gleamed from a crown of dogwood blossoms--pink and white blossoms! It was the face of--Madam Bubble! The girl-face with the slow, alluring smile and the waiting eyes!

The woman outside bent her head upon her cold clasped hands while the waves of love and surrender engulfed her. All her life she had been coming to--Sandy! He had cut down every barrier but one! He must crush that! How strong he looked, how fine!

A tap as gentle as the touch of a bird's wing fell upon the frosty glass and Sandy turned sharply. He waited a moment, then came to the window. Cynthia, frightened at her daring, shrank into the shadow and breathed hard. Sandy waited a moment longer and then drew the heavy curtains together close, leaving the outer world in darkness.

A moment later Cynthia, regaining courage, crept close to the glass and tapped again. This time Sandy strode to the door, flung it wide and, standing in the panel of warmth and light with uplifted head, said sternly:

"Who is there? What is wanted?"

Who he expected he hardly knew himself, but the answer he received caused him to reel backward.

"It's--it's lil' Cyn, Sandy, and she wants--you!"

Then he drew her in, closed the door upon the world and, holding her before him by the shoulders, looked deep and searchingly into her eyes which met his unflinchingly and trustfully.

"Thank God!" was all he said, but in that moment poor Lans Treadwell passed unscathed before his last judge.

"How thin you are, little Cyn!"

Sandy had drawn the big leather chair to the hearth and seated her in it. He took off the cloak and hood and then stood back.

"I reckon the longing for home did it, Sandy."

"You have--been homesick?"

"Oh! mighty homesick. I have wanted the mountain until my soul hurt."

"Poor lil' Cyn."

"Say it again, Sandy, say it again!" The dimmed eyes implored him.

"Poor lil' Cyn."

No suggestion of impropriety had entered with Cynthia. Sandy was too fine and self-forgetful to be touched by worldliness. Cynthia had come to him; he and she were safe!

"And Lans, Cynthia?"

"Come close, Sandy. There, sit so, on the stool. I want to touch you, I want to see you near while I go back--go away from our mountain for a time. Come with me, Sandy, down to Lans!"

Then she told him. The red firelight played on her pale, sweet face; her hand sometimes reached out and lay upon the shoulder by the arm of her chair; once the fingers touched his cheek--but Sandy did not move and his eyes never looked up from the heart of the glowing log.

"It was a long journey to the day when I understood, Sandy. It was a hard path for ignorant feet and blind eyes--but God was very good to me. The South is slow with us-all, dear, but up there in the North--I awakened! I think it came--the truth, dear, when she--the girl, ran to Lans. In the mighty times of a woman's life she can only run that way--to one man! And like the mists, clearing from Lost Mountain, the shadows left me and I knew right well that come what might, Sandy dear, in all the time on ahead, in joy or sorrow, pain or--death it would be to you I would want to run."

The log fell apart in rich glory and then Sandy looked up into the drooping, flower-like face.

"Don't, lil' Cyn," he whispered, "you do not understand, but--you must not speak so to me."

Then she laughed.

"Oh! I reckon I know what you mean, Sandy. I've been through it all and--run away from it! Sandy, tell me true; before the good and great God, doesn't that poor girl belong to Lans more than I do?"

"Yes!"

"Isn't his duty to her?"

"Yes, yes, lil' Cyn."