nded herself without once realizing that she was doing so.

"Crothers got up suddenly--and fell!" she said to the mistress of the
boarding-house who was working over the man on the ground, bathing his
face with snow and slapping his hands with her own rough ones.

"Yes, the lamp overturned--and the fire was so quick!"

"Yes, I could not let Crothers die; I had to pull him out!"

Then a man near by said:

"Plucky little devil." The words rang in Cynthia's ears strangely.
Why did they praise her? What had she done? She wanted Crothers to
die. Now that he was out of the fire, she did not want to see his eyes
open again, and yet she was straining her own to get the first sign in
his. Of a sudden Crothers looked full at her wonderingly, dazedly, and
at that sight Cynthia fled, and, in the confusion, no one missed her.
She did not go to the shed for her mule, she made for The Way uncloaked
and unhooded and ran for her life until, overcome by weariness, she
paused to take breath. Looking back she saw only a dull glow where the
factory had stood and black smoke was rolling thick up into the pure,
falling snow.

It was fear of Man that haunted Cynthia as she toiled up the hillside;
Man as he had loomed first on her horizon, cruel, seeking, and selfish.
When the hard branches of the tree touched her she stifled a scream,
for they felt like the demanding hands of Man; when a hungry animal
darted across her path she recoiled, remembering another animal with
face and form of Man.

It was three o'clock in the morning when Cynthia left The Forge--though
how the hours had passed from nine till three she was never able to
explain;--it was eight o'clock when she passed Andrew Townley's cabin
and saw smoke curling from his chimney. Sensation was slowly returning
to her; she felt cold, weak, and hungry, but with the senses aroused
she realized that she could not go home! She could not face Ann
Walden's vacant stare, or Sally Taber's coarse cheerfulness. In all
her world she was alone, alone! But even as she thought this her weary
feet were bearing her to Theodore Starr's little church which was never
locked by day or night. She reached the door at last, and with all her
remaining strength pushed it open and staggered up to where the steps
led to the small raised altar. Dropping down she bent her aching head
upon her arm and sobbed:

"Father! Mother!" simply because in all God's world no other words
came to her relief.