A sigh of relief escaped the girl as she listened and her tense face relaxed.
"But we would not touch his money, would we, Cynthia? nor have anything to do with any kin of his, would we?"
"No, no, Aunt Ann."
"Then——" and now Ann Walden bent close and whispered: "then have nothing to do with her—at Trouble Neck! She comes with money; with a hope of forgiveness—but we do not forgive such things, do we, Cynthia, and we Waldens cannot be bought?"
"No, no!"
"When you see her, tell her so! Tell her to keep away—we do not believe her; we do not want her!"
The flowers on the pretty girlish head were already wilted in the heat of the morning and something more vital and spiritual had faded and drooped in Cynthia Walden's soul. She looked old and haggard as she rose up and drew a long breath like one who had drunk a deep draught too hastily. Even the yearning for love had departed—unless God were good to her she would sink rapidly down, from now on, to the common level.
"I'll tell her, Aunt Ann," she said nonchalantly. "I'm right glad you let me know." Then she wandered aimlessly back to the library and over to the fireplace. Dejected and shrinking, she raised her eyes humbly to her "Biggest of Them All" and deep in her soul sank the truth that she, Cynthia Walden, once so gay and proud, was not the equal of Sandy Morley! If he were brave and fine enough he might help her from very pity—but if she were worthy, she must not permit him to do so.
Then it was that the first wave of actual soul-loneliness enveloped the girl, and when youth recognizes such desolation something overpowers it that no older person can ever understand.
And that very afternoon the great storm came that swept away so much and opened the way to more.