"I'm right glad I'm—I'm my dear father's child. All my life he's been a happy name to me—and I'm mighty proud to be his, really. I'm going to be brave for him and my mother! Sandy—I am not afraid—I am not afraid!" The words came slowly, drawlingly but unbrokenly.
"My aunt," and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head of Marcia Lowe, "has told me many things—I understand right many things, now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me—but what's done, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If—if—my husband wants me—I am ready—to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!"
Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionless and white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hid her face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone in the middle of the room.
What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? But looking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrust died from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stood straight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was at last the final judge.
"Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do—want you! you are my wife! You are not afraid?"
Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others—he and she were all! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them.
"I am not afraid," she whispered. And before the light in her upraised eyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch.
"I, too, wish to help you—in my own way. Can you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Will you leave the hills with me—me alone?"