WHEN Cynthia heard the gate close behind the preacher, and from the window of her room had seen him striding away, she put a shawl over her shoulder and started out. “Where on earth are you going?” her mother asked from the end of the porch, where she stood among the honeysuckle vines. “I want to run across to Mrs. Baker's, just a minute,” Cynthia said. “I won't be long. I'll come right back.” “I'd think you'd be afraid to do that,” her mother protested, “with so many stray negroes about. Besides, it's the Bakers' bedtime. Can't you wait till to-morrow?” “No, I want to walk, anyway,” said Cynthia. “I feel as if it will do me good. I'm not afraid.” “Well, I sha'n't go to bed till you come back,” Mrs. Porter gave in. In a few minutes the girl was at the back-yard fence of Pole Baker's cottage. The door was open wide, and in the firelight Cynthia saw Mrs. Baker bending over the dining-room table. “Oh, Mrs. Baker!” the girl called, softly. “Who's that? Oh, it's you, Cynthia!” and the older woman came out into the moonlight, brushing her white apron with her hand. She leaned over the fence. “Won't you come in?” “No, I promised mother I'd be right back. I thought maybe you could tell me if Mr. Baker had heard anything yet.” “I'm sorry to say he hain't,” replied the little woman, sadly. “Him and Mr. Mayhew has been working all sorts of ways, and writing constant letters to detectives and the mayors of different cities, but everything has failed. He came in just now looking plumb downhearted.” Cynthia took a deep breath. Her lips quivered as if she had started to speak and failed. “But, la me! I haven't give up,” Mrs. Baker said, in a tone of forced lightness. “He'll come home all safe and sound one of these days, Cynthia. I have an idea that he's just mad at his ill-luck all round, and, right now, doesn't care what folks about here think. He'll git over all that in due time and come back and face his trouble like other men have done. It's a bitter pill fer a proud young man to swallow, but a body kin git used to most anything in time.” “I'm afraid he's never coming home,” Cynthia said, in rigid calmness. “He once told me if he ever had any great trouble he would be tempted to drink again. Mr. Baker thinks he's been drinking, and in that condition there is no telling what has happened to him.”