"Thank God!" was all he said, but in that moment poor Lans Treadwell passed unscathed before his last judge. "How thin you are, little Cyn!" Sandy had drawn the big leather chair to the hearth and seated her in it. He took off the cloak and hood and then stood back. "I reckon the longing for home did it, Sandy." "You have--been homesick?" "Oh! mighty homesick. I have wanted the mountain until my soul hurt." "Poor lil' Cyn." "Say it again, Sandy, say it again!" The dimmed eyes implored him. "Poor lil' Cyn." No suggestion of impropriety had entered with Cynthia. Sandy was too fine and self-forgetful to be touched by worldliness. Cynthia had come to him; he and she were safe! "And Lans, Cynthia?" "Come close, Sandy. There, sit so, on the stool. I want to touch you, I want to see you near while I go back--go away from our mountain for a time. Come with me, Sandy, down to Lans!" Then she told him. The red firelight played on her pale, sweet face; her hand sometimes reached out and lay upon the shoulder by the arm of her chair; once the fingers touched his cheek--but Sandy did not move and his eyes never looked up from the heart of the glowing log. "It was a long journey to the day when I understood, Sandy. It was a hard path for ignorant feet and blind eyes--but God was very good to me. The South is slow with us-all, dear, but up there in the North--I awakened! I think it came--the truth, dear, when she--the girl, ran to Lans. In the mighty times of a woman's life she can only run that way--to one man! And like the mists, clearing from Lost Mountain, the shadows left me and I knew right well that come what might, Sandy dear, in all the time on ahead, in joy or sorrow, pain or--death it would be to you I would want to run." The log fell apart in rich glory and then Sandy looked up into the drooping, flower-like face. "Don't, lil' Cyn," he whispered, "you do not understand, but--you must not speak so to me." Then she laughed. "Oh! I reckon I know what you mean, Sandy. I've been through it all and--run away from it! Sandy, tell me true; before the good and great God, doesn't that poor girl belong to Lans more than I do?" "Yes!" "Isn't his duty to her?" "Yes, yes, lil' Cyn." "Then what is left? Just--you and me, I reckon, Sandy." Sandy gripped his clasped hands close as if by so doing he could better control the rising passion of his love for the girl beside him. Her ignoring of stern fact turned his reason. She was right--but she was wrong! He must protect her and never fail her; he must not be less than Lans. Then her words came to him in the chaos of his emotions; a new thought had claimed her. She had finished, at last, with the story of her exile; she was back among her hills. "And the factory, Sandy, it is coming on right fast, I reckon?" "It is nearly done." "And--the Home-school?" "That, too, is nearly ready."