"I--am not worthy of you, Cynthia. I had forgotten, dear. You see, for seven years I have lived where such things did not matter; I have learned that they do _not_ matter when all is said and done. Can you not trust me and forget that a Walden and a Morley are different----" "Oh! Sandy!" and now the white, white face turned scarlet--"you think that of me?" "It's in the blood of us all, Cynthia, but you and I, by forgetting it--can do so much." "It is not that, Sandy." "I know, dear, that I am old beside you--I know that I dare much when I say I am willing to take you, child as you are, and run the risk of making you love me while the woman of you--grows! I will help it grow--God help me! How I will glory in the task and if I fail----" Sandy had drawn her hands from his shoulders and now held them fast and close. "I will make you free, set you as free as you are to-day, my white blossom girl! You cannot understand; but God hears me and I swear it!" Cynthia did _not_ understand, but his fine passion flooded her soul with white light. "How wonderful you are," she whispered. "You stand out big and high like our mountain----" At that word Sandy closed his eyes, for he dared not look upon the dear, slow-smiling lips. "But, Sandy, you are covered with--with mist like Lost Mountain sometimes is. Let me find you, Sandy, not as you would help me find you, but in my own way. Will you do this for--lil' Cyn?" Without opening his eyes Sandy drew the clinging hands to his lips and kissed them. "When you find me, dear heart, dear heart, will you tell me or give me a sign?" "Yes, Sandy." "And now--where are you going, Cynthia?" For the girl was turning from him. "Just down The Way. I must watch with Aunt Ann. She is a mighty troublesome lil' child these days. Good-bye." They looked tenderly, frankly, in each other's eyes and then the girl was gone. And that night Cynthia sat beside Ann Walden and kept watch and guard while faithful Sally slept. The bedchamber was very quiet and only a tallow candle lighted the gloom. The figure stretched out upon the bed was deathlike in its rigid motionlessness, and Cynthia's hand lay over the thin, old wrinkled ones for fear in a drowsy moment the woman might elude her. It was past midnight when Ann Walden stirred and opened her eyes. Cynthia was alert at once, but the light that shone on the old face revealed an expression which had not rested there for many a day. "Queenie!" A cold horror overcame Cynthia, but she held her position and whispered: "Yes." "Go to bed, honey. I'm--I'm sorry." "Never mind, dear." Cynthia meant to play the old sad game that was the only one possible with the poor creature on the bed. "I reckon it was--Thorndyke Bothwell over by Susie May Lanley's, wasn't it?" "Yes, dear." "Why didn't you tell me, Queenie? Why didn't you-all trust me. I--I didn't mean to--be hard." "No, dear. Never mind. Go--to sleep now."