"Her smile," he said to Marcia Lowe one day when Cynthia had left the room for a moment—"how do you account for that?"
"I never account for Cynthia," the little doctor replied. "I just take her and thank God. She and I live our beautiful little life with mists all about us. It's very fascinating and inspiring. She is such a child, and until there is some call to do otherwise, I am going to play with her. We actually have dolls! Of course there are all sorts of bones in the cupboard to pass out to the darling, but I'm waiting until she is hungry."
And so Cynthia played her part and smiled and dreamed. Things just were! There was no perspective, no contrast—the sun was always flooding her hours with the one small, white cloud of Sandy's marked passage in the "Pilgrim's Progress," to sail across her sky now and then. Treadwell did not surprise or shock her. He seemed a big, splendid happening from the world beyond the mountains. He was strong and pleasant and made one laugh, but he would go presently and they would talk about him as they talked about Sheridan's raid and Smith Crothers' fire—he was not part of Lost Mountain!
Cynthia, nevertheless, walked with Lans Treadwell through the trails, and once they had followed the Branch and come upon the new factory near The Forge. The girl told Treadwell of the fire, but she eliminated herself utterly from the story. She understood better now than she once had—her part in that snowy night. Then they spoke of Sandy and his hopes.
It was a gray, still day when they so freely discussed Sandy, and they were strolling up from Trouble Neck to the Morley cabin; Miss Lowe and Sandy were to meet them there later, coming from an opposite direction.
"Yes, Sandy is right noble," Cynthia said softly; "he was born, I reckon, to do a mighty big thing. When he was little it seemed like God said, 'Sandy Morley, I choose you!' There never was any one like Sandy."
Treadwell scanned the face near him, but saw only admiration and pride, detached and pure.
"We-all just waited like we were holding our breaths till he came marching up The Way. I can laugh now, Mr. Lans, but the morning I saw him first I was standing right there"—she pointed to the tree by the road where she had listened to Sandy's bird call—"and he came along, and when I knew that that big man was—my Sandy that went all raggedy down The Way years before—I expect I hated him! It seemed like he had stolen the nice boy, eaten him up and swallowed him! But no one hates Sandy. We-all want to do something big and fine. Why, every time I look at him, Mr. Lans, I feel like I must show him how glad I am he—well, he didn't swallow the old Sandy whole!"
Treadwell laughed delightedly.
"He's mighty good to get near to when you feel—troubled," Cynthia added; "and, too, you feel like you wanted to keep him from hurting himself!"