hia's task
came for her doing.

Lans's visit had sent Matilda to her knees beside the four-post bedstead
in the room that had once been Caroline Markham's.

"Caroline," the trembling old lips had breathed, "it was _your_ boy who
came home to-day. _Your_ boy!"

For Lans quite frankly and naturally had told his story. The hot blood
of the South was well in command and the light of reason was in the sorry
eyes.

"Aunt 'Tilda, all my life I've been excused and forgiven for my
faults--bat I'm going to work my way out now, God helping me! I'm going
to take whatever punishment and joy comes. Up there in the hills I was
like a devil caged. I had passed through a trouble and been worsted; I
saw Morley standing where I should have stood, had I been less a fool
years ago. I couldn't seem to see, up there, how he deserved all that
was his. I was just maddened. I wanted to get on top and--I let go
myself! Cynthia seemed a child at first but all of a sudden she flashed
upon all that was evil in me--and I went blindly ahead until I stood
among them all in Morley's cabin. They all seemed so big and fine and
true and I saw--myself! All at once I found myself wanting more than I
had ever wanted anything in my life--to make good! I took my own way.
Some day you will all understand. That little girl is going to have her
choice by and by--I only wanted my fair chance to win out. When she
makes her choice her soul will be hers--I promised Sandy Morley that!"

It was this that had sent Matilda to her knees beside the bed of Lans's
mother.

And one evening--it was two days before Christmas, Lans took Cynthia and
his Aunt Olive Treadwell to a theatre in Boston. The play was a popular
one and, being late, Lans was obliged to take a box in order to get
seats. Cynthia felt and looked like a child. The excitement and
brilliancy brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes dance. She
hardly spoke and only now and then heard what her companions said.

"Lans," Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is Marian
Spaulding in the tenth row!"

This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned and
looked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in black
was looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thin
face remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthralling
play drove it, for the time being, into shadow.

"Blue is Cynthia's colour," Mrs. Trea