and the girl's face shocked the reviving woman into alertness.
Familiarity had dulled her in the past, but now she saw the expression
and outline of Theodore Starr's features bending near her.

"Oh!" she moaned shudderingly. "Oh! oh!"

"Aunt Ann, it is little Cyn! The tree by the smoke-house was struck,
but we-all are safe."

"I must be alone!" Then gropingly and tremblingly Ann Walden got upon
her feet.

"The letter," she panted, "the letter."

"Here it is--I found it on the floor where you fell."

At the time Cynthia was too distressed to attach any importance to the
matter, but she recalled the incident later.

"Yes, yes!" Ann Walden gripped the closely written sheets; "and now
I--I want to be alone!"

CHAPTER IV

Sandy Morley came out of his shed and turned his bruised and aching
face to Lost Mountain. It was very early, and the first touch of a red
morn was turning the mists on the highest peak to flaming films of
feathery lightness.

There had been a desperate quarrel in the Morley cabin the night
before, and Sandy, defending his father for the first time in his life
against the assault of Mary, had reaped the results of the woman's
outraged surprise and resentment.

"You!" she had shrieked, rushing at him; "you, taking on the man-trick,
are you? Then----" and the heavy blow dealt him carried Sandy to the
floor by its force. Later he crept to his shelter and suffered the
growing pangs of maturity. The words of Mary had roused him more than
the hurt she had inflicted. No longer could he submit--why? All the
years he had borne the shame and degradation, but of a sudden something
rose up within him that rebelled and defied. He no longer hated as he
had in his first impotent childish heat; he seemed now to be a new and
changed creature looking on with surprise and abhorrence at the
suffering of some one over whom he had charge and for whom he was
responsible. The some one was Sandy Morley, but who was this strange
and suddenly evolved guardian who rose supreme over conditions and
demanded justice for the hurt boy lying on the straw mattress in the
wretched outhouse?

All night, sleeping only at intervals, Sandy Morley strove to
understand. Morning found him still confused and tormented. He went
outside and with aching eyes looked upon the cloud. Presently, as if
ordered by a supreme artist, the rosy films parted majestically and
Lost Mountain, stern and grim, stood clearly defined