" part of the make-believe remained in Cynthia's memory.
Sandy had had his pretty story down there, away from Lost Hollow! Now
he had come back; had left it all behind him! She saw it quite
clearly. Perhaps when he was on that recent visit he had looked upon
all the dear playthings as she used to look at her "Pilgrim's
Progress," the portraits on the walls of the Interpreter's House, and
her letters to her soul. Perhaps Sandy had played with the wand of the
grim old Company; had tasted the brews of the dear Fairy Godmother and
he had--bidden good-bye to the pretty girl-thing! It was very plain
now; Sandy had accepted his life of duty in the hills, he had shut the
door between him and his playroom.

Just then Smith Crothers crossed The Way, lifting his hat as he did so,
to Cynthia. So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized,
that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side--but
the pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgot
the dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drew
nearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, like
something evil, seemed to pervade everything. Instinctively Lans put
his hand out and laid it protectingly on the shoulder beside him. The
touch shared the taint, too.

"Oh! do not do that," pleaded Cynthia recoiling. "I was only startled
because--he--the man came so suddenly."

"But I--I only wanted you to know you have--nothing to fear with me
here."

Cynthia made an effort to smile, but it was a sad, little shadowy
wraith of a smile.

The touch, the resentment, began their work from that moment. As
Cynthia's shudder at Crothers' touch in the past had fanned the evil
passions of the man, so her recoil now drew Treadwell's attention to
the fact that she was not a child--but a woman; a woman who recognized
him as man! The thought thrilled and interested him. It made him
forget to write that letter to Marian Spaulding; it made him conscious
that he did not care to talk about his many visits to Trouble Neck with
Sandy Morley.

And Sandy, during the days of the prolonged visit, was often absent
from home. The factory and the Home-school claimed his care and
presence. He feared, at first, that Treadwell would have a dreary time
by himself, but there were books, and Lans repeatedly told him the rest
and quiet were doing him a world of good. Then--and the desire
confused Sandy--he wished Treadwell woul