And help came. First on the scene were the boarding-house mistress and her sons; then followed others of The Forge, and soon a group had gathered and were aimlessly running about, giving orders and foolishly bemoaning the havoc that was spreading.
Quite calm and uncaring Cynthia answered the questions put to her. She defended herself without once realizing that she was doing so.
"Crothers got up suddenly—and fell!" she said to the mistress of the boarding-house who was working over the man on the ground, bathing his face with snow and slapping his hands with her own rough ones.
"Yes, the lamp overturned—and the fire was so quick!"
"Yes, I could not let Crothers die; I had to pull him out!"
Then a man near by said:
"Plucky little devil." The words rang in Cynthia's ears strangely. Why did they praise her? What had she done? She wanted Crothers to die. Now that he was out of the fire, she did not want to see his eyes open again, and yet she was straining her own to get the first sign in his. Of a sudden Crothers looked full at her wonderingly, dazedly, and at that sight Cynthia fled, and, in the confusion, no one missed her. She did not go to the shed for her mule, she made for The Way uncloaked and unhooded and ran for her life until, overcome by weariness, she paused to take breath. Looking back she saw only a dull glow where the factory had stood and black smoke was rolling thick up into the pure, falling snow.
It was fear of Man that haunted Cynthia as she toiled up the hillside; Man as he had loomed first on her horizon, cruel, seeking, and selfish. When the hard branches of the tree touched her she stifled a scream, for they felt like the demanding hands of Man; when a hungry animal darted across her path she recoiled, remembering another animal with face and form of Man.
It was three o'clock in the morning when Cynthia left The Forge—though how the hours had passed from nine till three she was never able to explain;—it was eight o'clock when she passed Andrew Townley's cabin and saw smoke curling from his chimney. Sensation was slowly returning to her; she felt cold, weak, and hungry, but with the senses aroused she realized that she could not go home! She could not face Ann Walden's vacant stare, or Sally Taber's coarse cheerfulness. In all her world she was alone, alone! But even as she thought this her weary feet were bearing her to Theodore Starr's little church which was never locked by day or night. She reached the door at last, and with all her remaining strength pushed it open and staggered up to where the steps led to the small raised altar. Dropping down she bent her aching head upon her arm and sobbed:
"Father! Mother!" simply because in all God's world no other words came to her relief.