HAPTER XXVII

There was a crust of glistening snow upon The Way; every branch of the
tall, bare trees was outlined with a feathery whiteness which shone, as
one looked deep into the woods, like the tracery of some fantastic
spirit going where it listeth without design or purpose. From Lost
Mountain the shadows had long since fled, and the gaunt peak rose clear
and protectingly over The Hollow, which, somehow, had undergone a
mysterious change in a few short months--or, was the change due to the
magic touch of love that dwelt in the eyes of a young girl who had left
the early train at The Forge and, on foot and alone, was wandering up
The Way with a song of joy trembling upon her lips? So quietly and
quickly had she run from the station, that Smith Crothers, standing by
the door of the saloon opposite, had been the only one to notice the
passenger in the long coat, rich furs, and quaint little velvet hat.

"Who's that?" he asked of the bartender inside. The man, on his knees,
scrubbing the floor, rose stiffly and came to Crothers.

"Ole miss from The Holler?" he ventured vaguely.

"Ole miss--be damned!" Crothers was in an ill humour.

"Company, maybe, for the Morley cabin. It's mighty 'mazing how many
folks, first and last, do tote up The Way these days. But I don't
see--nobody!"

Neither did Crothers, now, for the stranger was hidden from sight.
Then he began to wonder if there really had been any one. The night's
revel had been rather wilder than usual, and Crothers was not as young
as he once was.

The bell of his factory was ringing, however, and he unsteadily made
his way thither.

It was Cynthia who was treading lightly up The Way, but not the Cynthia
who a few months before had gone so blindly to do the bidding of that
inner voice of conscience.

"It was here," murmured she, standing behind a tall tree by the road,
"that you fled from Crothers the night of the fire. Poor little Cyn!"

That was it! The child, Cynthia, walked beside the woman, Cynthia,
now, and the woman with clear, awakened eyes--understood at last!

"Poor little Cyn! How frightened you were and how bravely you fought
for--me! Or was it I who fought for you? Never mind! we have come
home. Come home together, dear, you and I! How heavenly good it is
for us to come--together!"

At every step the weariness and sense of peril, engendered by her
experience, dropped from Cynthia. She was a woman, but Lans had left
her soul t