Cynthia Walden came slowly up the trail leading to the old gray house. Since the day of the flood which bore old Ivy forever from sight, she had confronted so many strange conditions that her eyes had the haunted, frightened expression common to the mountain people. The curse of the hills seemed to have settled upon her. She often said to herself, "poor whites," in order that the significance might be fully understood. Old Ivy had said that the cows were all that stood between them and the fate of others who had, through misfortune, accepted the title despised by the quality.
Well, she, Cynthia Walden, was no longer quality; of that there could be no doubt. Had Ivy and the cows been spared she might have hidden her disgrace of parentage, but now she must, in order to get food and wood, seek the help and charity of others, and she could no longer hold up her head!
At this thought the pretty, drooping head was lifted defiantly. No! she would not go down just yet, for one last motive remained. While she was at the store an hour before to buy a few necessary articles of food with the pitiful supply of money she had found in an old teapot on the kitchen shelf, a wonderful thing had occurred. Tod Greeley, weighing out some tea, remarked casually:
"I reckon, now I think o' it, Miss Cyn, there's a letter come for you. One for you and one for Mr. Morley."
"A letter!" Cynthia almost staggered. "A letter!"
Never in all her life had Cynthia received a letter, never had her imagination soared to such a height as to conceive of such a thing. Tod finished his careful weighing, then added a reckless handful and, having tied the tea up in a bulky package, wandered to the dirty row of letter boxes.
"Here it is!" he exclaimed after thumbing the morning mail over and remarking about each article.
"Yours and Mr. Morley's bear the same writing—Noo York! There ain't been a Noo York letter in this yere post-office since I came to The Hollow. It's a right smart compliment, Miss Cyn!"
Trembling and pale with excitement, Cynthia grasped the letter, tucked her little bundles under her arm and ran from the store.
The cold, crisp air of late autumn spurred her to action, and she kept on running, with the letter burning her hand like flame, so tightly did she grip it. Before she reached the broken and dilapidated fence separating the home place of Stoneledge from the trail, she paused beneath a tree to take breath and reconnoitre. She looked at the letter then for the first time, and she was sure it was from Sandy. Her heart beat painfully and her eyes widened. Looking about to make sure of privacy she tore open the envelope and lo! at the first words the gray autumn day glowed like gold, and the world was set to music. Poor Sandy, distracted by the noise and confusion of the big city, had permitted himself, when writing to Cynthia, the solace of imagination and memory.