"My aunt," and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head of Marcia Lowe, "has told me many things--I understand right many things, now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me--but what's done, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If--if--my husband wants me--I am ready--to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!" Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionless and white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hid her face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone in the middle of the room. What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? But looking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrust died from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stood straight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was at last the final judge. "Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do--want you! you are my wife! You are not afraid?" Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others--he and she were all! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them. "I am not afraid," she whispered. And before the light in her upraised eyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch. "I, too, wish to help you--in my own way. Can you trust me?" "Yes." "Will you leave the hills with me--me alone?" For an instant the sweet smile faded, but it was for the loss of her mountains; not her doubt of her husband which drove it away. "Yes," she murmured. Then Sandy found his way back from his place of torment and he strode to the two in the middle of the room. He laid his hand upon Treadwell's shoulder, and all the smouldering passion in his heart rang in his words. "Lansing Treadwell, swear to me, that you will leave her soul to her own keeping until----" Treadwell gave him a long, steady look. "I swear!" he said. "When--her hour comes to--understand and choose--let her be white and pure as she is now!" "I swear it, Sandy Morley." "Then," and now Sandy's eyes dimmed, "good-bye, little Cyn. You'll miss the mountains--but there are good, true hearts--down beyond The Way." At this Marcia Lowe drew near: "Little girl--come home! She is mine until you take her from Lost Hollow, Lansing Treadwell." The hands that held Cynthia's let her free. A pause followed. Then: "Good-night--good-night!" The pretty, pale face flushed tenderly. "Good-night. And now come, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!" The sweet attempt at cheer all but crushed those who heard and understood. CHAPTER XXIV