"I--I do not know. Things come so slowly, but I'm trying to learn for the sake of my people. The women and children, Lans, have got a clutch on me; they must always come first. Even when we want women happy, we want to give them happiness; give them the liberty _we_ think is good for them. Treadwell, I'm mighty sure there are times when we-all better get out and leave them alone! We only make matters worse. You do not know these hills as I do--I don't want to preach, heaven knows! As I talk I am only feeling my own way, not pointing yours; but I know my hill people, and the women and children tug right hard at my heart. When love--such love as our mountain men know--takes a woman into a cabin--it generally shuts God out! I know this, and the children that come into life by way of our cabins are--well! I was a cabin boy, Lans! Women need God oftener than we-all do. Love puts a claim on them that it never does on us-all. Love demands suffering of them; responsibility that man never knows. Treadwell, we men must never clog up the trail that leads woman to her God. I know I'm right there! But tell me, are women and men different, so different in the lowlands and highlands?" Treadwell was bent over, his face hidden in his hands. He made no answer. "That little woman--down there"--Sandy's eyes were far and away from the warm, rude comfort of the room which held him and that stricken figure by the hearth--"is battling for what she believes is right. Something in her was strong enough to take her from you, your love, and the safety you stand for in her life. She has gone back to--what has stood for hell in her past. Do you, can you, understand her, Treadwell?" "No!" "Then, keep away until God, as she knows God, has had His way with her. Stand off and watch. Be ready, but let her fight her fight and come to you, if that is the end--with clean soul!" And now Lans Treadwell was weeping as only men and children can weep when they are defeated by a stronger will they cannot understand, and cannot resist. The great logs crackled and the wind roared in the chimney. Above, the shambling steps of Martin Morley sounded as he made his preparations for bed. Suddenly Sandy started up and listened. "There's a call of distress from The Way," he said, getting upon his feet. Then he stood waiting for the next sound. Treadwell pulled himself together and listened also. No call came, but presently steps were heard outside--a tap on the door of the room which led directly to the open. "Come!" said Sandy, and in walked Marcia Lowe and Cynthia Walden. They were rain-soaked and wind-blown. Their faces shone and their eyes danced.