His bed had been made and Sandy's was untouched.

"Still away!" whispered the girl and sank upon the window-seat while a
thrill of pleasure brought the slow smile to the sensitive lips.

"Oh, the pretty day!" Then a desire to set the place in perfect order
for Sandy's possibly near-return caused her to spring up and dart
quickly from place to place, straightening a picture here, flicking the
dust off the shelves and chairs, and lastly attacking the cluttered
desk which had not been touched since the master went away.

Sandy was not orderly by instinct. Dirt distressed him, but
superficial chaos seemed never to disturb him. He could lay his hand
on whatever he wanted amid the layers of papers, books, and writing
material.

"It's right Sandyish," murmured Cynthia; "I wonder if he will--mind?"
Never before had she thought of arranging the desk. Carefully, almost
breathlessly, she piled some magazines in one place; some papers in
another. The pens and pencils were stuck together in the yawning mouth
of a particularly fierce silver gargoyle who evidently had been created
to devour such articles, and then--at the bottom of the mass Cynthia
came upon a book which had been quite hidden from sight. It was an
open book; a book marked at a certain place. There was a strange
familiarity about the book which caused the girl to take it up with
trembling surprise. The blue and gold cover recalled emotions long
since forgotten. How could she know that Sandy had scoured many a
Boston book store for just that edition, causing the proprietors much
annoyance and trouble?

"Pilgrim's Progress!"

Then backing to the window-seat, Cynthia sat down and feasted her eyes
first upon the cover, then upon the words marked by an illuminating
pencil:

Without doubt her designs were bad. But stay, now you talk of her,
methinks I either have seen her, or have read some story of her. . . .
Doth she not speak very smoothly and give you a smile at the end of a
sentence?

The book fell from Cynthia's hands and lay motionless on her lap. Her
fair face raised itself rigidly and the clear eyes looked, not at the
cheerful, home-room, but back through the years: the sombre, shabby
years--until they caught and held a girl of twelve demanding
something--something so tremendous!--from a poor, trembling boy but a
little older than herself! Then the old, half-doubting promise sounded
and--a kiss fell upon Madam Bubble's lifted mouth!

"O