“D-done wrong, Cynthy.”
Cynthia did not answer that, for she remembered how she, too, had exulted when she had believed him to have accomplished Isaac Worthington's downfall. Now that he had failed, and she was in his arms, it was not for her to judge—only to rejoice.
“Didn't look for you to come back—didn't expect it.”
“Uncle Jethro!” she faltered. Love for her had made him go, and she would not say that, either.
“D-don't hate me, Cynthy—don't hate me?”
She shook her head.
“Love me—a little?”
She reached up her hands and brushed back his hair, tenderly, from his forehead. Such—a loving gesture was her answer.
“You are going to stay here always, now,” she said, in a low voice, “you are never going away again.”
“G-goin' to stay always,” he answered. Perhaps he was thinking of the hillside clearing in the forest—who knows! “You'll come-sometime, Cynthy—sometime?”