"To-morrow, then!" Cynthia heard him murmur; "to-morrow then!"

He extinguished the light and passed from the house, leaving Cynthia
more lonely than she had been since she left the train that morning.

For an hour or two Cynthia struggled with herself. Abstractedly she
knew that she ought not to go to Sandy Morley alone. Something that
some one--she could not remember who or where--taught her, warned her
that it was not right for her to leave Trouble Neck that evening.

"But why?" asked the great longing, "why?"

"You are Lans Treadwell's wife; his wife!"

At this Cynthia laughed outright. That part of her life had touched
her only as her awful experience with Crothers had done; except that
Lans had gained her confidence in Man while Crothers had imperilled it.
The real self of Cynthia was pure and untouched; ready to offer now, to
offer itself, upon the true altar of love and consecration. Nothing
could change that; nothing could blind her to it; but over and through
the knowledge ran the discord of suggestion left by the contact with
convention, down, and far, from Lost Mountain.

It was eight o'clock when Cynthia gained her triumph over the claim
upon her, and cloaked and hooded, started out.

She wore her own, old cloak and the red hood that Marcia Lowe's loving
fingers had knitted for her. Sandy must not be disappointed in her; it
must be little Cyn, not the Cynthia Lans Treadwell had claimed, who was
to put forth her appeal for help.

The crisp, starry night was still and fine; the walk from Trouble Neck
to Sandy's cabin brought the blood to the pale cheeks, light to the
large eyes. How quiet the cabin was--and dark! Only one light shone
forth and that was from the study. Cautiously Cynthia stepped close
and looked in; the curtains were parted where a hasty hand had left
them. Sandy, seated near the glowing fire, was painting at his easel.
After a long day's work in the open air he was indulging his fancy,
forgetting the trials and disappointments of his life in the poor
talent that was his. The canvas was so placed that the watcher from
outside could see it plainly over the back bent toward it. A face
gleamed from a crown of dogwood blossoms--pink and white blossoms! It
was the face of--Madam Bubble! The girl-face with the slow, alluring
smile and the waiting eyes!

The woman outside bent her head upon her cold clasped hands while the
waves of love and surrender engulfed her. All her life