"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer; "Sandy--'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way like what I said!" There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in the girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender. Madam Bubble was herself again! Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumn leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia spied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment she pushed her letter into it. "There!" she panted; "and I'll put my answers in it, too, and give them all to Sandy when he comes up The Way." But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl at that moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between this moment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and how was she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems that confronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept from the door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. Old Ivy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight in the Walden "plot," and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did not understand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a great deal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to question where she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took to pacing the upper balcony and repeating over and over: "The hills--whence cometh my strength!" It was quite fearful, but Cynthia had already learned to keep away from her aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made matters worse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured to call at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorable that the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at the outer door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked into the hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowe had left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Walden raised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strange flashes of lucidity, overcame her. "Out!" she shouted--"it was all a lie--there never was a marriage! Never! Would you kill me and the child? Leave us alone. We will not take the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!" Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floor and with outstretched hands she moaned: "He killed her! killed her! and I damned her; leave us alone!"