At length, when they reached the great forest, Lem Hallowell knew that he must speak or cry aloud.  But what would be the sound of his voice—­after such an age of disuse?  Could he speak at all?  Broken and hoarse and hideous though the sound might be, he must speak.  And hoarse and broken it was.  It was not his own, but still it was a voice.

“Folks—­folks’ll be surprised to see you, Cynthy.”

No, he had not spoken at all.  Yes, he had, for she answered him.

“I suppose they will, Lem.”

“Mighty glad to have you back, Cynthy.  We think a sight of you.  We missed you.”

“Thank you, Lem.”

“Jethro hain’t lookin’ for you by any chance, be he?

“No,” she said.  But the question startled her.  Suppose he had not been at home!  She had never once thought of that.  Could she have borne to wait for him?

After that Lem gave it up.  He had satisfied himself as to his vocal powers, but he had not the courage even to whistle.  The journey to Coniston was faster in the winter, and at the next turn of the road the little village came into view.  There it was, among the snows.  The pain in Cynthia’s heart, so long benumbed, quickened when she saw it.  How write of the sharpness of that pain to those who have never known it?  The sight of every gable brought its agony,—­the store with the checker-paned windows, the harness shop, the meeting-house, the white parsonage on its little hill.  Rias Richardson ran out of the store in his carpet slippers, bareheaded in the cold, and gave one shout.  Lem heeded him not; did not stop there as usual, but drove straight to the tannery house and pulled up under the butternut tree.  Milly Skinner ran out on the porch, and gave one long look, and cried:—­

“Good Lord, it’s Cynthy!”

“Where’s Jethro?” demanded Lem.

Milly did not answer at once.  She was staring at Cynthia.

“He’s in the tannery shed,” she said, “choppin’ wood.”  But still she kept her eyes on Cynthia’s face.  “I’ll fetch him.”

“No,” said Cynthia, “I’ll go to him there.”

She took the path, leaving Millicent with her mouth open, too amazed to speak again, and yet not knowing why.

In the tannery shed!  Would Jethro remember what happened there almost six and thirty years before?  Would he remember how that other Cynthia had come to him there, and what her appeal had been?

Cynthia came to the doors.  One of these was open now—­both had been closed that other evening against the storm of sleet—­and she caught a glimpse of him standing on the floor of chips and bark—­tan-bark no more.  Cynthia caught a glimpse of him, and love suddenly welled up into her heart as waters into a spring after a drought.  He had not seen her, not heard the sound of the sleigh-bells.  He was standing with his foot upon the sawbuck and the saw across his knee, he was staring at the woodpile, and there was stamped upon his face a look which no man or woman had ever seen there, a look of utter loneliness and desolation, a look as of a soul condemned to wander forever through the infinite, cold spaces between the worlds—­alone.