"From Lost Mountain?" Oh! if Sandy could have heard her say that word how it would have rested his soul! "From Lost Mountain?" "Yes, my dear. Come and sit here beside me." Matilda could not stand longer. Her knees shook beneath her for, like a blinding light, the knowledge came to her that poor Lans, with all his faults, was exonerated from any wrong to this young girl! The innocent old eyes and the radiant young ones had no veil between them. Sitting side by side they smiled bravely at each other and then Cynthia reached out her hands. "You are"--she whispered--"you are Sandy Morley's fairy godmother! Oh! I know all about you. Lans has told me. I am right glad--oh! mighty glad to see you!" The voice shook with emotion and Matilda Markham could not answer for a moment. Never in her life had she been so moved. She longed to take this girl to her heart and hold her there, but instead she found herself, presently, telling the homely news of the hills to the hungry soul whose yearning eyes never fell from her face. "And the little doctor is my own aunt, you know?" "Yes, child. They told me all about it." "It's right good to have one's own--at last;" this was plaintively whispered; "and my dear, dear father. You know his story, too?" "Yes. It lives in the hills and speaks for him even to-day." "They-all say I'm like my father." "I am sure you must be. You are like Miss Lowe, and I guess one can always tell which parent a boy or girl is like. I guess Sandy, now, is like his mother. He doesn't favour his father." "Yes. I reckon Sandy must be like his mother. I had never thought of that before." Cynthia's eyes were fixed and dreamy. "And you, child, are you happy and content?"--the words of Sandy were the only ones possible--"I must tell them all about you when I go back." "You are--going back?" the yearning was unmistakable--"I thought, maybe, you were going to stay here--I'd be mighty glad to have you near." "I'm coming home, to my own home a little later. I'll see you often then." Slowly they were advancing and retreating, this woman and girl, but each venture brought them a little nearer. Like the incoming waters of a rising tide a slight gain was made, moment by moment. Then suddenly and unexpectedly a rushing current bore them to the high mark. "You poor, homesick child! Come cry it out and have done with it!" It was not like Matilda Markham to so assert herself; it was not like the dear, brave Madam Bubble to succumb as she now did; but, in another instant she was kneeling where Sandy had knelt a few nights before, and clinging to the dear hands which had, then, rested upon his bowed head.