"Good God! how could I tell the truth? I was afraid of killing her."
"And—the child. Of course you must not tell—now."
"Cynthia, in heaven's name, don't be too hard upon me—you are my wife!"
Fiercely Lans proclaimed this as if, by so doing, he could find refuge for her as well as himself. But Cynthia shook her head and drove him back upon his better self again.
"Those little words spoken by that man in the hills," she whispered, "couldn't count, I reckon, against—all the rest."
"They can! They shall, Cynthia. I can make the past clear to you, little girl——" Then he stopped still before the look in Cynthia's eyes.
"I am a—woman, Lans!" it seemed to say.
Presently he heard her speak.
"You told Sandy, dear, that night in the cabin, that you would leave my soul to me—until—well! You have left it to me, and the time has come! I have much to learn; but I understand a mighty lot now. It came to me while I waited, for you to come back from her! My soul would never be clean again, Lans, if—I forgot—the little child—hers and yours! God will be very kind to us-all, dear, if we do right. It's mighty puzzling—but it will come straight. You once loved her?"
"Yes, Cynthia—yes!"