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Updated: June 24, 2025
Something that some one she could not remember who or where taught her, warned her that it was not right for her to leave Trouble Neck that evening. "But why?" asked the great longing, "why?" "You are Lans Treadwell's wife; his wife!" At this Cynthia laughed outright.
Levi was deeply touched by all he heard, and when things puzzled him he gruffly insisted that he needed a walk to calm his nerves, and always it was the little doctor who straightened the tangle. "Miss Interpreter," Markham dubbed her, and through her he became acquainted with Smith Crothers and Crothers' mark upon recent occurrences. Of course Levi knew of Lans Treadwell's visit to the hills.
Then he drew her in, closed the door upon the world and, holding her before him by the shoulders, looked deep and searchingly into her eyes which met his unflinchingly and trustfully. "Thank God!" was all he said, but in that moment poor Lans Treadwell passed unscathed before his last judge. "How thin you are, little Cyn!" Sandy had drawn the big leather chair to the hearth and seated her in it.
"Old fellow!" exclaimed Lans, taking the cushions from the window-seat and tossing them back again from where he stood in the middle of the room; "never place sofa pillows chuck 'em! Only by so doing can you give that free and easy grace that distinguishes a Frat cosy corner from a drawingroom torture chamber." Every cushion that Treadwell tossed seemed to strike with a thud on Sandy's heart.
Of course you must not tell now." "Cynthia, in heaven's name, don't be too hard upon me you are my wife!" Fiercely Lans proclaimed this as if, by so doing, he could find refuge for her as well as himself. But Cynthia shook her head and drove him back upon his better self again. "Those little words spoken by that man in the hills," she whispered, "couldn't count, I reckon, against all the rest."
I I do not want to be! Why, when I saw the light in in Marian Spaulding's eyes a little time ago as she ran to you I seemed to know all at once that it was not to you, Lans dear, that I wanted to run in my trouble, but to " "Whom?" "To Sandy, dear. Sandy, up there in Lost Hollow." "Cynthia!" Was she shamming? Was she striving, ignorantly, to make escape easy for them all?
It was as if Treadwell were hurting little Cyn as she sat in her window-seat with her dear face turned toward them. "Come, sit down, Lans. You are as nervous as a ghost-candle." "Thanks!" Treadwell took a chair across the hearth from his host. "There's a devil of a storm rising out of doors." "They're right common this season of the year.
Without being positively bad, Lans, you've managed to create a mighty lot of trouble for a good many innocent people." "Yes, Aunt Olive." Lans was standing by the window looking down into the empty street. "What are you going to do about it?" Then Lans turned. "Aunt Olive, I'm going to untangle the snarl somehow! And I'm going to stand by Marian!" "Marian?
Lans felt himself, by that time, to be about the highest-minded man any one could hope to find. He had practised great self-repression; he had accepted his future life suddenly, but with all its significant responsibilities.
"Married?" gasped Cynthia, as if the word were foreign; "married! me, little Cyn? Why, only women marry!" "And you are a woman, sweet!" Even then Lans did not touch her, though she looked more divine with her big eyes shining and the blessed smile parting her lips than he had ever seen her. "I a woman? Well, I reckon I am but it seems mighty queer when you first think of it.
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