e from my life of shame and
misery. There was no other way--and--and we had to choose! He was so
noble--it was I who--who--gave myself to him; he never exacted--anything.
I--loved him as only God and I can know! Poor Lans never comprehended
why I left--but he--my husband was ill; dying and I could not help it.
Something made me go back. It was the good in me that Lans had created
that most of all compelled me to go. If Lans could believe that! oh! if
he only could! A woman could, but could a man?"

Poor Cynthia was struggling to understand a strange language.

"I'm right sure," she faltered, "that Lans could understand."

"Do you think so? Oh! I have been so tortured. He told me to come to
him if I needed him and God knows I need him now--but I wanted most of
all--not to hurt him--or exact too much from his goodness. You see----"
a palpitating pause followed. Then: "I did not _know_ of my condition
when I went away; I only heard and saw the wretched man who was once, who
was still--my husband. I stayed and nursed him; he died--a month
ago--and now--I must think of--of--the child!"

"The child?" Faintly Cynthia repeated the words and her bewildered mind
struggled with them and fitted them, somehow, into the Hopes' cabin, and
that scene where Marcia Lowe arraigned Liza.

The door of the sitting-room opened and Lans entered noiselessly. Marian
Spaulding's back was toward it and in her slow, vague way Cynthia was
wondering why he should be there just then. The last shielding crust of
childhood was breaking away from Cynthia--her womanhood, full and
glowing, was being fanned to flame by the appeal this strange woman was
making upon it. Cynthia, the girl who had been caught in the net, had no
longer any part in this tragedy--she was free!

"The child?" she again repeated, "what child?"

"Why, Lans's and mine!"

Then Cynthia stood up quite firm and straight. She looked full and
commandingly at Lans who was leaning, deadly white, against the door he
had closed behind him.

"Here is Lans, now," she said, more to the haggard man than to the pale
woman.

It was as if, in those four simple words, she appealed to the best and
finest of him to deal with this fearful responsibility which was his, not
hers. In that instant she relinquished all the forced ties that held him
and her--she cast him off superbly at this critical time of his life; not
bitterly or unkindly--but faithfully.

Marian Spaulding turn