"Poor lil' Cyn."
No suggestion of impropriety had entered with Cynthia. Sandy was too fine and self-forgetful to be touched by worldliness. Cynthia had come to him; he and she were safe!
"And Lans, Cynthia?"
"Come close, Sandy. There, sit so, on the stool. I want to touch you, I want to see you near while I go back—go away from our mountain for a time. Come with me, Sandy, down to Lans!"
Then she told him. The red firelight played on her pale, sweet face; her hand sometimes reached out and lay upon the shoulder by the arm of her chair; once the fingers touched his cheek—but Sandy did not move and his eyes never looked up from the heart of the glowing log.
"It was a long journey to the day when I understood, Sandy. It was a hard path for ignorant feet and blind eyes—but God was very good to me. The South is slow with us-all, dear, but up there in the North—I awakened! I think it came—the truth, dear, when she—the girl, ran to Lans. In the mighty times of a woman's life she can only run that way—to one man! And like the mists, clearing from Lost Mountain, the shadows left me and I knew right well that come what might, Sandy dear, in all the time on ahead, in joy or sorrow, pain or—death it would be to you I would want to run."
The log fell apart in rich glory and then Sandy looked up into the drooping, flower-like face.
"Don't, lil' Cyn," he whispered, "you do not understand, but—you must not speak so to me."
Then she laughed.
"Oh! I reckon I know what you mean, Sandy. I've been through it all and—run away from it! Sandy, tell me true; before the good and great God, doesn't that poor girl belong to Lans more than I do?"