Thus Guilford began at once to take her proper place as the mystic spot where lovers’ vows were plighted almost before they knew it, so replete it was with all that goes to make a home, and, as the dancing flames died down, Carolina felt a soft hand steal into hers, and looked down into the wide eyes of her niece, little Cynthia Lee. "What is it, darling?" she asked. "I feel," whispered the child, "that strange things are going to happen at Guildford, and that you and I shall always be in the midst of them!" Carolina, instinctively realizing that this was a psychic moment for the imaginative child, slipped her arm around Cynthia’s delicate waist, saying: "Why do you feel it, Cynthia?" "Listen, Aunt Carolina. Something of all the queerness I have heard since I came down here makes me feel that I shall lead a stormy life, and that I shall need this thing and want it and be unable to accept it until I am beaten by everything else. Do you understand me?" "Only too well," sighed Carolina. "Then I shall want you, and want you terribly." "I shall always be here, dearest." "That is what comforts me," said the child, the mystic light dying out of her eyes. "It is what comforts me about the whole thing. I know it will always be there when I want it. I have talked to Emmeline about it. Even little Gladys taught me her hymn." And the child and the woman looked into each other’s eyes, knowing that their souls were akin, and that the witchery of the twilight hour had opened floodgates closed by day, but which opened when the soul felt the need of speech. "I am glad you told me, Cynthia," said Carolina. "The only answer to all of life’s puzzles, I have found in this awakened sense of mine, which will surely come to you some day. Remember it when the waters grow too deep." "The answer to all life’s puzzles," echoed Cynthia. "Sing, child," said Carolina. And Cynthia, whose voice was like the rippling water and the sounding of silver bells, began to sing what Gladys called her hymn: "’And o’er earth’s troubled, angry sea I see Christ walk, And come to me and tenderly, Divinely talk!’" As the child sang, every feeling in every heart melted, until only love remained, and, when she finished, Kate cried out: "It’s all over! I d-don’t hate Mrs. Eddy any more. I--I’ve been healed of it by Cynthia’s singing." The child’s lovely voice had so sadly shaken Carolina’s composure that, under cover of the half-darkness, she rose and made her way quietly to a little hall which led to a private staircase, intending to gain her own room and recover herself before her guests began to take leave. As the voices rose and fell, she moved nearer and nearer the door, too intent upon her own ends to notice that Moultrie La Grange had likewise detached himself from the fireside group and disappeared.