It was the little Cyn of the past playful days who pleaded so pathetically--forgetting caste and dividing line. The little Cyn who had always clung to her comrade when danger or fear threatened; but behind the childish words rang the woman's alluring sweetness--the woman little Cyn was some time to be. By a mighty effort Sandy Morley bent and kissed the pretty upturned mouth. The rough, unlovely clothing could not disguise the dignity of the stiff, boyish form; the bluish bruise on his face grew darker as the hot blood surged through it, but the clear, boyish eyes were frank and simple at last as the: "Good-bye, Cynthia!" rang sharply. There was one look more, full of brave sorrow, then Cynthia turned abruptly and ran like a wild thing of the woods into the shadow of the pines. Sandy stood and watched her, with his thin face twitching miserably, until the sound of her going died away; then he groaned and bent to pick up the box of money that had lain unheeded while bigger things had been conceived and born. Slowly, mechanically he counted the small fortune to the last piece, then he placed two half dollars in the box and left it where any one could easily find it. Poor Sandy was beyond suffering now, or indeed beyond any sensation except that of dull action. His head was aching excruciatingly; fever throbbed in his body and a heavy weariness overcame him. He would rest before he went to his father! Sinking to the ground he leaned against the tree under which Cynthia had stood and, for a moment, lost consciousness. CHAPTER V "So you've come home to be fed, eh?" Martin Morley slunk into a chair and eyed the woman by the cook-stove ingratiatingly. "I sho' have," he replied; "it smells like ash cakes, and I've brought a bucket of buttermilk from ole Mis' Walden's place. She certainly is a techersome woman but a powerful good manager." "Where's the buttermilk?" "Outside the do'!" "Run and fetch it, Molly." The child, glaring at Martin, sprang to do her mother's bidding and as she passed Morley he seemed to note, for the first time in his life, her fantastic beauty. And then Morley stared after her--she looked like _his_ mother! With the thought a blush of shame rose to his thin, sallow face. His mother! Between his mother and him lay a black abyss. What right had anything, holding part in that shadow, to look like his mother? He arose and almost snatched from the child the pail she had brought in. "Hyar!" he cried, "let me take that, you're slopping it over the floor. Whar's yo' brother?" With this Mary Morley turned from her task with hot, blazing face? She had been handsome once--but the fleeting beauty was gone.