"I reckon it will take you to the world's end," Cynthia, the mystic exclaimed, "and back again!"
"Back again!" Sandy's imagination could not stretch past a certain limit.
"But you are coming back, Sandy?" A startled fear crept into the girl's eyes; "you promised!"
"I shall come back—yes!"
"Let us count the money together, Sandy."
Dishevelled dark head and smooth bright one bent close in the dimming light. There was a far-distant rumble of thunder, but neither heeded it; showers were almost daily occurrences, and excitement and concentration ran high. Suddenly Sandy started back and pointed to a small roll of bills—three one-dollar bills they were—but Sandy had never put a piece of paper money in the box!
"That!" he whispered hoarsely; "how did that get here?"
Too late Cynthia saw her mistake. All the small savings and sacrifices of her life she had exchanged that very day at the post-office for the three bills. Tod Greeley had picked out the cleanest and newest, and now they had betrayed her.
Sandy was on his feet at once, and a stern frown drew his brows together; the bruise on his cheek stung as the blood rushed to it, and then he waited.
Presently Cynthia rose to her feet and from her slim height faced Sandy on the level—eye to eye.