Sandy Morley came out of his shed and turned his bruised and aching face to Lost Mountain. It was very early, and the first touch of a red morn was turning the mists on the highest peak to flaming films of feathery lightness.

There had been a desperate quarrel in the Morley cabin the night before, and Sandy, defending his father for the first time in his life against the assault of Mary, had reaped the results of the woman’s outraged surprise and resentment.

“You!” she had shrieked, rushing at him; “you, taking on the man-trick, are you? Then-” and the heavy blow dealt him carried Sandy to the floor by its force. Later he crept to his shelter and suffered the growing pangs of maturity. The words of Mary had roused him more than the hurt she had inflicted. No longer could he submit-why? All the years he had borne the shame and degradation, but of a sudden something rose up within him that rebelled and defied. He no longer hated as he had in his first impotent childish heat; he seemed now to be a new and changed creature looking on with surprise and abhorrence at the suffering of some one over whom he had charge and for whom he was responsible. The some one was Sandy Morley, but who was this strange and suddenly evolved guardian who rose supreme over conditions and demanded justice for the hurt boy lying on the straw mattress in the wretched outhouse?

All night, sleeping only at intervals, Sandy Morley strove to understand. Morning found him still confused and tormented. He went outside and with aching eyes looked upon the cloud. Presently, as if ordered by a supreme artist, the rosy films parted majestically and Lost Mountain, stern and grim, stood clearly defined! Just then a bird-note broke the mystic stillness; it filled The Hollow with triumphant joy-it became part of the tumult of Sandy’s soul compelling the discord to lose itself in harmony.

“I must go away!” Sandy murmured as if in prayer. “I must go away!” The new man into which he was merging felt its way cautiously through the brightening prospect. “I must go away, now.”

That was it. The years of preparation were past. Little or much, he must take his savings and go forth! For a moment a soul loneliness possessed him.

“Where?” he faltered in that rosy quiet that was moved and stirred by the bird-song. “Where?” There was only one place on earth to him beyond his mountain home-he must go to that state which recognized so generously the yearning for knowledge he must go to Massachusetts! But now that the hour had arrived he found his day-dreamings of the past were as vague and unreliable as guides as his idea of heaven, that state of mind which Marcia Lowe always insisted was here and now, or nowhere at all!

Well, he would go to the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady and get a more concise conception of heaven and Massachusetts, if possible.

Sandy turned his bruised face to earth as he reached this decision; like a condemned man on his last earthly day, he set about the doing of the unimportant but necessary duties that lay between the dawn and the night. With no joy did Sandy Morley anticipate his great change. He only realized the “call,” and in a subtle, compelling way he felt himself driven by forces, quite beyond his control, to bear himself bravely.

He filled the rusty pail with water from the spring down by the Branch; he brought wood and lighted a fire on the ashy hearth before which, the night before, the quarrel had waged. Having finished the homely tasks he gathered some scraps of ash cakes and bacon together and made for himself a breakfast, which he washed down with some thin, sour buttermilk. After this he went to his shed and arrayed himself in a suit of clothes, old but decent, that some one at The Forge had charitably given him; then, packing a basket with some luscious late peas and berries that he had been fostering for weeks in a tiny garden patch back of the cabin, he started out on his last day’s journey on the hills for many and many a year. He had thought it out clearly while he was performing his tasks. He would bargain and sell; he would draw Miss Lowe out as to particulars of direction, cost and details; he would bid her good-bye-she a stranger who had been so kind to him! He would miss her teaching and guidance; miss her strange inspiration of joyousness and courage. After leaving Trouble Neck he must see Cynthia Walden and tell her that the great hour had come! Then there was to be the final scene. He was going to ask his father to go away with him! The quarrel of the night before had decided him. Together he and his father might make a place for themselves beyond the touch of Mary and the sound of her terrible voice. Tenderly and with a beating heart Sandy recalled the old, old days-the days when Martin sang, and prayed his wonderful prayers to a little happy child. Yes, they would go away together and then nothing would be quite so hard or impossible.

Thus arranged, Sandy began his day. He sold his basketful at the first house-a place five miles away where some strange artist-folks were boarding. Sandy got a great deal of money there, for not only did the mistress of the house pay him well, but a man and woman gave him a dollar for posing for them while they sketched him. Reaching Trouble Neck, Sandy met his first setback. Miss Lowe was away; the little cabin was closed and on the door was pinned a scrap of paper which confided to any chance visitor that the owner would be gone for several days. Marcia Lowe had set out for that far place among the hills where her uncle’s body had been laid years before. She had gone to make it beautiful, when she located it, and the task was to take longer than she knew.

Sandy sat down upon the doorstep dejected and disappointed. He had depended more than he knew upon what he felt sure the little doctor could give him, and yet, not for a moment, did he contemplate waiting for her return-his order had been given. As his great-grandfather had taken up arms unquestioningly long ago, so Sandy now responded to this later command. He must go that night!

After resting for a few moments and struggling against the dreariness that was spreading through his thought he roused and set forth for the Walden place. Having no legitimate business at the back door of Stoneledge, the boy had no intention of braving old Ivy’s sombre stare or the chance meeting with the mistress of the Great House, but there were other ways of communicating with Cynthia besides the back door and the vicarious personalities of those who ruled over her. Youth has its own methods of telegraphy, and the hills people are master hands at secrecy. There was a certain bird-note for which Sandy was famous: a low but shrill pipe that had startled old Ivy more than once and was nearly always successful in causing Cynthia to materialize in due time. So Sandy, from the shelter of trees back of the Stoneledge smoke-house, gave his peculiar and penetrating call. A second time he gave it and then Ivy issued forth and, cocking her weird old head on one side, listened. A long silence followed. The hot afternoon palpitated and throbbed in The Hollow, but the hidden bird did not break it by another call. At last it became evident that Cynthia was beyond the reach of her slave’s desires, and so poor Sandy gathered together his flagging strength and spirits and turned toward home with the forlorn hope that he might meet Cynthia on the way there. Now that the parting time had come he knew that the girl was his only real friend on earth in the sense that youth knows a friend. They were near each other, though so far apart. They spoke a common tongue and there were hours when the girl of the Great House and Sandy of the cabin reached across the gulf of tradition and class distinction and opened their souls to each other. During such moments Cynthia had awakened and called forth Sandy’s dormant imagination. Through Cynthia he had been shown the beauty of the flowers; been taught the note of the birds and the thrill of life under winter’s cold and hard wing. Poverty sharpened the senses of The Hollow people alike in hovel and great house; it drove Miss Ann and Cynthia into close quarters with Ivy and her weird superstitions; it drove Sandy and his kind into dangerous contact with each other, for behind closed doors and in the semi-darkness of the one-windowed cabins evil traits grew apace and the cold and the poor food were fuel for passion and hate.

But no little enchantress met lonely Sandy on his homeward way.

“I reckon I must-go without!” he muttered with something much like a sob in his voice. Not even then did he dream of procrastinating. He was hungry and weary and when he reached the cabin he paused to eat again before going to the rock with his day’s earnings. Mary, Molly, and Martin were absent, but that was no new thing. Sandy meant to hide his money, come back and speak to his father and then, by the dark of the moon, start out either with Martin or alone. Grimly the young, tired face set into stern lines; a paleness dimmed his freckles and a fever brightened his eyes, but the heat in his blood, now at the day’s end, acted like a stimulant to his thoughts. No longer did he fear or doubt-he had passed that stage and, like a warrior reinforced and exhilarated, he began to whistle confidently and almost joyously. He meant to give Mary her share of his profits, but he would leave them in the box beside the stone that so long had hid his secret.

Over the Branch and up the hill to the woods went Sandy with an uplifted expression on his poor, bruised face and the dignity of his clothing adding a strange touch of age to him. Near the sacred spot he paused and the tune died on his lips. Some one or some thing was stirring just beyond, and, of a sudden, fear and past doubt drove the blood from his heart. His only thought was of Molly! All the years, perhaps, she had deceived and betrayed him. He had, like a coward, failed to count his money; to guard it as he should!

Creeping forward on hands and knees he made his way silently through the bushes. He knew the trick of the beasts; knew how to pad the underbrush beneath his hands before he trusted the weight of his body to it. When within a few feet of the spot whence the sound of moving came, Sandy started up and dashed with one bound into the open. His hands were spread wide with eagerness to grip that which had betrayed him, and so he came upon-Cynthia Walden! He fell back panting, when his brain, at last, interpreted for him what he saw. The girl sat with the tin box of money in her lap; the overturned stone beside her and the last rays of the hot sun filtering through the dogwood trees and pines upon her sweet, pale beauty. By a sharp trick of memory Sandy recalled how the dogwood blossoms one spring long past had looked like stars under the dark pines and now he thought that Cynthia’s face was like the pale, starry blossoms. He was always to remember her so when, in the hard years on before, she was to come to him in fancy and longing. A pure girl-face, radiant with hope and bravery, touched, just then, with startled fear which faded into laughing triumph as she recognized Sandy.

“You thought it was-Molly?” she whispered, holding her hands clasped over the box in her lap. “So did I. Once I found her here-found her hunting under one rock after another. I gave her a lick on the back I reckon she has always remembered.” The slow, sweet laugh rippled out-“Molly is mighty afraid of me.”

Then Sandy managed to command his thought and motions. He stepped to Cynthia and knelt beside her.

“I am going away,” he said softly.

“Yes, I know. When?”

“To-night.”

“To-night?” Fourteen and twelve have no perspective-everything is final and vital to them. The past has been but a witchery of preparation in a fairy tale of wonder and delight; the actual experience of action found them both unfitted for the ordeal, but in each boy and girl is the potential man and woman, and Sandy and Cynthia met the present moment characteristically.

“I dreamed two dreams,” said the girl with a shade of mysticism in her tones. “Once I saw you going down The Way, Sandy, with the look on your face that you now have. I stood by the big pine just where the trail ends in The Way, and watched you. Then I dreamed last night that I stood by the big pine again and you were coming up The Way a-waving to me like you knew I would be there. There was a look on your face-a new look-but I knew it, for I’ve seen it before in the Significant Room.” Cynthia paused, for the question in Sandy’s eyes held her.

“You know my story?” she said with her delicious laugh thrilling her listener; “the story part of my life?”

“Oh!” It came to Sandy then, in this strained, prosaic moment, the memory of Cynthia’s fancy to set her little world in the frame of her “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the only book of fiction free to her. “Oh! yes, now I remember.”

“Sandy, all these years I have tried and tried to make you fit in-but you wouldn’t until-until last night. When it was right dark and still and everybody was sleeping, I went down into the old library-that’s where Aunt Ann had the queer spell the day Miss Lowe came-the room is all dirty and full of ashes, for the chimney fell that afternoon; but right beside the fireplace there is an empty space on the wall that I’ve always saved for you!”

Cynthia had forgot the present in her fantastic play and she held Sandy as she always had before by the trick of her fascination.

“Yes,” he murmured; “there is your mother’s picture and the old general’s and the frame that holds your father’s portrait-the father that no one knows about but you-and now-am I hanging in the Significant Room?”

Sandy was all boy now; the strange new dignity fell wearily from him-he was playing, after a hard lesson, with little Cyn.

“And what am I?” he asked, “what have you made me?”

“Oh! I did not make you, Sandy. You just were! The moonlight was streaming in through the window where the roses and honeysuckle are-it was a leafy moonlight and all ripply like dancing water. I was not afraid-I went right boldly up to-your picture, Sandy, and I knew you at once. You know in the Significant Room of my book it says there was a man in a cage; the man and his dream; and the man that cut his way through his enemies-the biggest of them all! But, oh! Sandy, mighty plain and fine I saw you like you were all three of the book folks. You were Sandy of the cage-and the cage was Lost Hollow! You were Sandy with your dream of helping us-all. Me, the po’ lil’ white trash in Crothers’ factory-everybody! Then you were Sandy cutting your way through your enemies like the Hertfords are to your family; I heard Aunt Ann telling Ivy-and then right sudden I saw you hanging up in a gold frame with the ripply moonlight shining on you- The Biggest of Them All!”

Sandy’s eyes were brilliant and glittering; his breath came quick and hard, and to steady himself he whispered:

“I am going away-to-night!”

The vision vanished and Cynthia felt two large tears roll down her cheeks. They left no sorry stains upon the pale smoothness of the girl’s skin; Cynthia’s eyes could always hold a smile even when dimmed; her eyes were gray with blue tints and her straight, thick hair was the dull gold that caught and held light and shade. Some day she was going to be very handsome in an original and peculiar fashion, and Sandy unconsciously caught a glimpse of it now, and it disturbed him.

“I am going-to-night. I wonder if there is enough?”

He glanced at the box. “I have never counted it.”

“Never counted it? I have counted it every week. That’s because I am I, and you are you, Sandy. There’s over thirty dollars.”

At this Sandy gasped.

“I-reckon it will take me to Massachusetts,” he said.

“I reckon it will take you to the world’s end,” Cynthia, the mystic exclaimed, “and back again!”

“Back again!” Sandy’s imagination could not stretch past a certain limit.

“But you are coming back, Sandy?” A startled fear crept into the girl’s eyes; “you promised!”

“I shall come back-yes!”

“Let us count the money together, Sandy.”

Dishevelled dark head and smooth bright one bent close in the dimming light. There was a far-distant rumble of thunder, but neither heeded it; showers were almost daily occurrences, and excitement and concentration ran high. Suddenly Sandy started back and pointed to a small roll of bills-three one-dollar bills they were-but Sandy had never put a piece of paper money in the box!

“That!” he whispered hoarsely; “how did that get here?”

Too late Cynthia saw her mistake. All the small savings and sacrifices of her life she had exchanged that very day at the post-office for the three bills. Tod Greeley had picked out the cleanest and newest, and now they had betrayed her.

Sandy was on his feet at once, and a stern frown drew his brows together; the bruise on his cheek stung as the blood rushed to it, and then he waited.

Presently Cynthia rose to her feet and from her slim height faced Sandy on the level-eye to eye.

“I put it there!” defiance and pride touched the words, “it means as much to me as it does to you-the going away, I mean. I’ve thought it all out-you’ll have to pay it back-pay it as I want it.”

Sandy’s mind worked more slowly; gropingly he strove to understand.

“How did you get it?” he asked relentlessly.

Cynthia laughed a little.

“Just scratches and pricks-it was great fun! I’ve been gathering the wool from the bushes under which the sheep go, for years and years; ever since you began to save, Sandy. Lily Ivy sold the wool to the darkies-and I got Mr. Greeley to change the pennies-for bills. It is all mine, every bit!”

A mist rose to Sandy’s eyes-it almost hid that pure flower-like face shining under the dark trees.

“You mustn’t be mean, Sandy; besides, you are to pay it all back.”

“How?” That word was all Sandy could master for a sharp pain in his throat drove all else he meant to say back.

“Why, you are going to set me free-you must marry me!”

Like a child playing with fire Cynthia heedlessly spoke these words. They had no deeper significance to her than the lilt of a world-old song. Marriage was the end-all and consummation of her magic stories and, in this case, it had simply been a trifle more difficult to consider on account of the social difference between Sandy and her. However, that had been overcome by the wand of imagination. Sandy would evolve into something so peculiarly splendid that the chasm could be bridged!

The effect of Cynthia’s words upon Sandy was tragic. He closed his eyes in order that he might shut out the hurting power of her face and commanding eyes-but between the lids and his vision the girl mocked him-he could not escape her!

The night before his manhood had been stung to life by Mary’s cruelty; it was fanned into live flame now by the childish tenderness of this girl so near to womanhood that the coming charm and sweetness glorified her. Then she touched him and a wave of delicious pain coursed through his body.

“How did-this happen?” A finger lightly passed over the bruise on his cheek. He could not answer.

“I know! But they couldn’t hurt the you of you, Sandy. I see the bigness shining through everything. Why do you keep your eyes shut?”

Sandy opened his eyes desperately and saw only the child until eye met eye again, and then the vision of what Cynthia foretold shook him once more.

“My head-spins,” he said vaguely; “the day’s heat made it ache.”

“You will take my money, Sandy?”

“Yes.”

“And you will come back and-marry me?”

“I’ll come back and-and-

“Will you marry me, Sandy, like they do in books?”

“If-if-that is the best way, yes.”

“Oh! it always is! It’s a mighty fine way, because then no one can-make you do things. I shall make you do whatever I choose, Sandy-will you mind?”

“No.”

“You know in my book, Sandy, there is a Madam Bubble and I’m making myself like her. You can make yourself into anything, I reckon, Sandy, if you just will, and dream about it. Listen to me!” Cynthia had Sandy by the shoulders now in frank, playful mood. “I am tall and comely-I looked up the word, and it says it means to be agreeable and good-looking. Well, I’m good-looking-or I’m going to be. Then the book says Madam Bubble speaks smoothly and smiles at the end of a sentence. I’ve tried and tried and now I can smile that way. Look, Sandy!”

Again Sandy forced himself to fasten his eyes on the sweet, tender mouth.

“I love to smile, Sandy.”

Suddenly the girl’s gay tone changed; she came back to grim facts with a catch in her voice.

“How I shall miss you, Sandy. The woods will be right empty-till you come again! I shall make believe find you on the hills even when I know you are not here, but always I will be able to see you in the Significant Room! I’m going to study and make myself fit for you-I shall be right busy. I am going to ask Aunt Ann to let me learn of the little doctor. I shall study the books you have and-it won’t seem long, Sandy!”

The brave attempt at cheer, the tender renunciation in the soft voice, wrung Sandy’s heart.

“I’m sorry I hated the little doctor for teaching you, Sandy. She helped you-to-to come back quicker, only I did not know then. She’ll help me now, I reckon, to be ready for you. Sandy, I just couldn’t see you go down The Way! You stand here like you were going to stay on forever and I’ll run down the trail. I won’t look back once, Sandy, but-kiss me good-bye.”

It was the little Cyn of the past playful days who pleaded so pathetically-forgetting caste and dividing line. The little Cyn who had always clung to her comrade when danger or fear threatened; but behind the childish words rang the woman’s alluring sweetness-the woman little Cyn was some time to be. By a mighty effort Sandy Morley bent and kissed the pretty upturned mouth. The rough, unlovely clothing could not disguise the dignity of the stiff, boyish form; the bluish bruise on his face grew darker as the hot blood surged through it, but the clear, boyish eyes were frank and simple at last as the:

“Good-bye, Cynthia!” rang sharply.

There was one look more, full of brave sorrow, then Cynthia turned abruptly and ran like a wild thing of the woods into the shadow of the pines.

Sandy stood and watched her, with his thin face twitching miserably, until the sound of her going died away; then he groaned and bent to pick up the box of money that had lain unheeded while bigger things had been conceived and born. Slowly, mechanically he counted the small fortune to the last piece, then he placed two half dollars in the box and left it where any one could easily find it. Poor Sandy was beyond suffering now, or indeed beyond any sensation except that of dull action. His head was aching excruciatingly; fever throbbed in his body and a heavy weariness overcame him. He would rest before he went to his father!

Sinking to the ground he leaned against the tree under which Cynthia had stood and, for a moment, lost consciousness.