he, 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.

"Dear Madam Bubble!" Why, Cynthia had almost forgotten her pretty,
fascinating story-self! Her dear, slow smile had almost lost