"You must take her away, Lans, dear, and be right good to her as you have been to me, big brother," the sweet voice, the unutterable tenderness and firmness more and more carried everything before them; "and let the little child have its chance—poor lil' child! And by and by—oh! a long time perhaps—when you are all mighty happy and safe, you must tell her all about it, Lans, and make her love me—a little! Tell her—it was all I could do. She will understand and be right glad."
"And you—little Cyn?" The words came in a groan.
"I? oh! I reckon this is what God meant me to do, Lans. For this he brought me down The Way, and now he will let me go home!"
Mrs. Treadwell's step outside the door brought them both back to the poor artificial environment that bound them.
"I—I cannot see her now!"
Cynthia crouched before the stern, conventional tread of the approaching woman as if she were in a place she had no right to be and Lans quickly opened a door leading from the sitting-room to a bedroom through which she might escape. And as the slight figure ran from his sight he had a sickening feeling as if, wakening from a dream of mystery and enchantment, he found himself in the midst of sordid reality. The sweet purity of the hills passed with Cynthia and the actualities of his future entered with Olive Treadwell.
"Lans," she asked sharply, looking about the room, "who was the woman who called here this morning? The woman Cynthia saw?"
"It was—Marian Spaulding."
"Good heavens! Did she talk to Cynthia?"
"She—tried to—Cynthia—could not understand."