"Lans," Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is Marian Spaulding in the tenth row!"
This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned and looked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in black was looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thin face remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthralling play drove it, for the time being, into shadow.
"Blue is Cynthia's colour," Mrs. Treadwell next remarked apropos of nothing. "She's right handsome, Lans. You ought to be less a fool and behave normally. She'd make a mighty sensation if——" But this did not interest the absorbed third party in the box at all.
When the play was over and the audience was crowding into the lobby, Cynthia noticed the girl of the tenth row near them. She was not looking at them, but she gave the impression of listening to what they said. Again the face claimed Cynthia's attention.
"Brother," she said softly to Lans, "is that a friend of yours? She looks mighty sad."
Lans gave another sharp start and rather abruptly replied:
"I knew her once. Come, little sister, that is our number being called. We must not hold up the line of taxis. Aunt Olive is out of sight."
Strangely enough Cynthia did not dream of the play that night; nor did the sad, fair face of Lans's one-time friend hold part in her visions, but she did dream of Lost Mountain as she had not dreamed of it in many a night. She was back among the dear, plain home scenes. She was planning with Sandy the Home-school; she was in the cabin at Trouble Neck with the little doctor. The sun was shining in the broad, opened door and she and Marcia Lowe were sitting where the warm brightness flooded them. And at that juncture of the dream something very vivid occurred. Quite distinctly she heard the little doctor say:
"In all the world there is nothing so important as this, Cyn. Remember it as long as you live."
Upon awakening, Cynthia, in her still, dark room, found herself haunted by the dream and the little doctor's words. They were startling, yet strangely familiar. When, before, had Marcia Lowe spoken them; what had she meant? Then suddenly it came back to Cynthia. It was about little children!