"I've been devilishly wrong, Sand, and returned your hospitality and friendship with bad grace, old fellow, but I drifted into it and when it was too late--I did what seemed the only decent thing. I know I couldn't have explained, and she turned my senses by her sweetness. She's like a baby, Morley, and I mean to--to do the right by her, as God hears me!" Treadwell used the name of God so frequently and ardently that it sickened Sandy. "Yes," he groaned, "you will do right by her or----" the dark eyes flashed dangerously; "and you'll do right by her--in my way!" This was unfortunate and Sandy saw his mistake. Lans Treadwell's shoulders straightened and his jaw set in ugly lines. "If it's going to be man to man, Sand," he muttered, "I reckon I've got the whip hand. She's my wife, you know, and the laws of this nice little state are pretty explicit along certain lines. When all's said and done--what are you, as a man, mind you, going to do about it?" Again the staggering doubt was like a weapon for Sandy's use, but he hesitated still. "I--I wonder if you know what you have done?" he groaned again. "When you talk like that, Sand," Lans whispered, his face softening, "I don't! And I implore you to help me." "You don't know our South, our Hollow," Sandy went on, with a pitiful tone in his unsteady voice. "It takes us so long to--wake up! It's something in the air, the sun, the winters--the life. Cynthia has not roused--she is only dreaming in her sleep. She's a child, a little girl, and you have dragged her into----" "Hold on, Sand!" Lans warned once more. "I have been waiting"--Sandy did not seem to heed the caution--"I've been waiting and watching for the hour when she would realize that she was a woman. I've loved her all my life, worshipped her, but I would not have startled her before her time to have saved my soul from death! Had she realized, Treadwell--had things been open and fair, I would have taken my chance--but--you!" Again the blaze darted to Treadwell's eyes. "And what do you insinuate?" he asked--but he got no farther. There was the sound of quick, approaching steps outside and a moment later a sharp knock on the door; Sandy strode forward and opened it, then closed it upon Marcia Lowe and Cynthia. Quickened by spiritual insight Sandy saw that the girl was awake to the reality of things. Shock had shattered her childishness forever, but she was not afraid. Uncertainty and ignorance were there, but no sense of danger in the clear, wonderful eyes. "Oh! Sandy," she panted, going close to him and holding her hands out, "Sandy, you know?" "Yes." "I wanted to be here with you-all after she"--the sweet eyes turned to Marcia Lowe--"told me. I--I thought maybe he"--she glanced toward Treadwell--"might not tell you, till morning. Poor dear!" This last was to Sandy, for the look in his eyes wrung the tender heart with divine pity.