Treadwell was bent over, his face hidden in his hands. He made no answer.
"That little woman—down there"—Sandy's eyes were far and away from the warm, rude comfort of the room which held him and that stricken figure by the hearth—"is battling for what she believes is right. Something in her was strong enough to take her from you, your love, and the safety you stand for in her life. She has gone back to—what has stood for hell in her past. Do you, can you, understand her, Treadwell?"
"No!"
"Then, keep away until God, as she knows God, has had His way with her. Stand off and watch. Be ready, but let her fight her fight and come to you, if that is the end—with clean soul!"
And now Lans Treadwell was weeping as only men and children can weep when they are defeated by a stronger will they cannot understand, and cannot resist.
The great logs crackled and the wind roared in the chimney. Above, the shambling steps of Martin Morley sounded as he made his preparations for bed. Suddenly Sandy started up and listened.
"There's a call of distress from The Way," he said, getting upon his feet. Then he stood waiting for the next sound. Treadwell pulled himself together and listened also.
No call came, but presently steps were heard outside—a tap on the door of the room which led directly to the open.
"Come!" said Sandy, and in walked Marcia Lowe and Cynthia Walden. They were rain-soaked and wind-blown. Their faces shone and their eyes danced.
"This is the end of our holiday," Marcia said with a laugh. Neither she nor Cynthia paid attention to the man in the chair; he was hardly visible behind the high back. "Tod Greeley's shaft broke just as we were coming into The Way from the cross cut. We called and called, but finally we decided to find where we were—it is as black as a pocket out of doors—we were all completely lost. Cynthia and I felt our way along, while Greeley stayed with the horse—the beast acted like a fiend—and then we saw a light: your light! No other man in The Hollow wastes oil like you—and here we are!"