"Go back—to whom?"
This practical question took the smile from Lans's lips.
"To Sandy Morley, I reckon," he said grimly; "most of every noble thing I might have had—gets to him—sooner or later. He always loved her; she has just confessed to me that she loves him."
CHAPTER XXVII
There was a crust of glistening snow upon The Way; every branch of the tall, bare trees was outlined with a feathery whiteness which shone, as one looked deep into the woods, like the tracery of some fantastic spirit going where it listeth without design or purpose. From Lost Mountain the shadows had long since fled, and the gaunt peak rose clear and protectingly over The Hollow, which, somehow, had undergone a mysterious change in a few short months—or, was the change due to the magic touch of love that dwelt in the eyes of a young girl who had left the early train at The Forge and, on foot and alone, was wandering up The Way with a song of joy trembling upon her lips? So quietly and quickly had she run from the station, that Smith Crothers, standing by the door of the saloon opposite, had been the only one to notice the passenger in the long coat, rich furs, and quaint little velvet hat.
"Who's that?" he asked of the bartender inside. The man, on his knees, scrubbing the floor, rose stiffly and came to Crothers.
"Ole miss from The Holler?" he ventured vaguely.
"Ole miss—be damned!" Crothers was in an ill humour.
"Company, maybe, for the Morley cabin. It's mighty 'mazing how many folks, first and last, do tote up The Way these days. But I don't see—nobody!"