its
cunning. However, it returned, now, and drew the corners of the stern
young mouth up pathetically.

DEAR MADAM BUBBLE:

I am remembering everything and holding to it. I shut my eyes and I
see you standing by The Way with your face like the dogwood flowers in
the spring--shining and white and happy! That--er--way is how it is
going always to look till I come back. No matter what happens to me;
no matter how mighty hard things are, I am just going to stop short,
when I feel I can't bear life, and shut my eyes and see you a-standing
waiting like what you said. I've met much kindness and a great
friend--it's the noise and strangeness and many folks what turn me
crazy-like, but always when I shut my eyes--you come and it seems
_home_ again. If I don't write, please Madam Bubble, know it's because
I'm fighting hard to get something fit to bring to you when I come
back. And I reckon you better not write to me--I couldn't stand it.
You know how I couldn't count the money till the time came! That is
the sort I am and, besides, I've got to find out what this--er--life is
going to make me into. If I shouldn't be worthy to come up The Way to
you--you better not know. But I will be! I will be! Thank you for
what you've done for me and most for letting me think you'll wait and
be ready.

Cynthia dropped the letter in her lap--for she was crouching beneath
the tree. It was a badly written and much-soiled letter but no missive
straight from heaven could have performed a greater miracle upon her.
A radiance flooded her face from brow to chin, and her eyes glistened
with the happy tears that never overflowed the blue-gray wells that
held them.

"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer;
"Sandy--'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way like
what I said!"

There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in
the girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender.
Madam Bubble was herself again!

Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumn
leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There
was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected
breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant
to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it
among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia
spied a hole in the trunk of th