"A--girl--I reckon?" "Yes, a girl--just girl enough, you know, to keep him--like--well--like other fellows." "Oh!" Cynthia smiled, but her eyes grew as gray as the day; the blue faded from them. "I hope she is a mighty nice, upperty girl." "I'm only playing, you know," Lans broke in. "I am imagining a life for Sandy something like your old secret life. It's all fun." "You mean--Sandy has an--an imagination?" "Precisely." But the "girl" part of the make-believe remained in Cynthia's memory. Sandy had had his pretty story down there, away from Lost Hollow! Now he had come back; had left it all behind him! She saw it quite clearly. Perhaps when he was on that recent visit he had looked upon all the dear playthings as she used to look at her "Pilgrim's Progress," the portraits on the walls of the Interpreter's House, and her letters to her soul. Perhaps Sandy had played with the wand of the grim old Company; had tasted the brews of the dear Fairy Godmother and he had--bidden good-bye to the pretty girl-thing! It was very plain now; Sandy had accepted his life of duty in the hills, he had shut the door between him and his playroom. Just then Smith Crothers crossed The Way, lifting his hat as he did so, to Cynthia. So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized, that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side--but the pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgot the dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drew nearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, like something evil, seemed to pervade everything. Instinctively Lans put his hand out and laid it protectingly on the shoulder beside him. The touch shared the taint, too. "Oh! do not do that," pleaded Cynthia recoiling. "I was only startled because--he--the man came so suddenly." "But I--I only wanted you to know you have--nothing to fear with me here." Cynthia made an effort to smile, but it was a sad, little shadowy wraith of a smile. The touch, the resentment, began their work from that moment. As Cynthia's shudder at Crothers' touch in the past had fanned the evil passions of the man, so her recoil now drew Treadwell's attention to the fact that she was not a child--but a woman; a woman who recognized him as man! The thought thrilled and interested him. It made him forget to write that letter to Marian Spaulding; it made him conscious that he did not care to talk about his many visits to Trouble Neck with Sandy Morley.