"They-all say I'm like my father."
"I am sure you must be. You are like Miss Lowe, and I guess one can always tell which parent a boy or girl is like. I guess Sandy, now, is like his mother. He doesn't favour his father."
"Yes. I reckon Sandy must be like his mother. I had never thought of that before."
Cynthia's eyes were fixed and dreamy.
"And you, child, are you happy and content?"—the words of Sandy were the only ones possible—"I must tell them all about you when I go back."
"You are—going back?" the yearning was unmistakable—"I thought, maybe, you were going to stay here—I'd be mighty glad to have you near."
"I'm coming home, to my own home a little later. I'll see you often then."
Slowly they were advancing and retreating, this woman and girl, but each venture brought them a little nearer. Like the incoming waters of a rising tide a slight gain was made, moment by moment. Then suddenly and unexpectedly a rushing current bore them to the high mark.
"You poor, homesick child! Come cry it out and have done with it!"
It was not like Matilda Markham to so assert herself; it was not like the dear, brave Madam Bubble to succumb as she now did; but, in another instant she was kneeling where Sandy had knelt a few nights before, and clinging to the dear hands which had, then, rested upon his bowed head.