AT THE CROSSROADS

BOOKS BY HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

 A Little Dusky Hero A Son of the Hills At the Crossroads Camp Brave Pine Janet of the Dunes Joyce of the North Woods Mam'selle Jo Princess Rags and Tatters The Man Thou Gavest The Place Beyond the Winds The Shield of Silence The Vindication Unbroken Lines

[Illustration: "_It might have seemed an empty house but for theappearance of care and a curl of smoke from the chimney. _"]

AT THE CROSSROADS

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

FRONTISPIECE BY

WALTER DE MARIS

GARDEN CITY--NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1922

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTOFOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

AT THE CROSSROADS

AT THE CROSSROADS

The great turning points of life are often rounded unconsciously. Invisible tides hurry us on and only when we are well past the curvedo we realize what has happened to us. 

Brace Northrup, sitting in Doctor Manly's office, smoking andruminating, was not conscious of turning points or tides; he wassluggish and depressed; wallowing in the after-effects of a seriousillness. 

Manly, sitting across the hearth from his late patient--he had shovedhim out of that category--regarded him from the viewpoint of afriend. 

Manly was impressionistic in his methods of thought and expression. Every stroke told. 

The telephone had not rung for fifteen minutes but both men knew itspotentialities and wanted to make the most of the silence. 

"Oh! I confess, " Northrup admitted, "that my state of gloom is duemore to the fact that I cannot write than to my sickness. I'm donefor!"

Manly looked at his friend and scowled. 

"Rot!" he ejaculated. Then added: "The world would not perish if youdidn't write again. "

"I'm not thinking about the world, " Northrup was intent upon the fire, "it's how the fact is affecting me. The world can accept or decline, but I am made helpless. You see my work is the only real, vital thingI have clawed out of life, by my own efforts, Manly; that means a lotto a fellow. "

Manly continued to scowl. Had Northrup been watching him he might havegained encouragement, for Manly's scowls were proof of his deeplymoved sympathies. 

"The trouble with you, old man, " he presently said, "is this: You'vebeen dangerously ill; you thought you were going to slip out, and sodid I, and all the others. You're like the man who fell on thebattlefield and thought his legs were shot off. You've got to get upand learn to walk again. We're all suggesting the wrong thing to you. Go where people don't know, don't care a damn for you. Take to theroad. That ink-slinging self that you are hankering after is justahead. You'll overtake it, but it will never turn back for you--theself that you are now. "

Manly fidgeted. He hated to talk. Then Northrup said something thatbrought Manly to his feet--and to several minutes of restless stridingabout the room. 

"Manly, while I was at my worst I couldn't tell whether it wasdelirium or sanity, I saw that Thing across the water, the Thing thatfor lack of a better name we call war, in quite a new light. It's whathas got us all and is shaking us into consciousness. We're going toknow the true from the false when this passes. My God! Manly, I wonderif any of us know what is true and what isn't? Ideals, nations, folks!"

Northrup's face flushed. 

"See here, old man, " Manly paused, set his legs wide apart as if tobalance himself and pointed a finger at Northrup, "You've got to cutall this out and--beat it! Whatever that damned thing is over there, it isn't our mess. It's the eruption of a volcano that's been bubblingand sizzling for years. The lava's flowing now, a hot black filth, butit's going to stop before it reaches us. "

"I wonder, Manly, I wonder. It's more like a divining rod to me, finding souls. "

"Very well. Now I'm going to put an ugly fact up to you, Northrup. Your body is all right, but your nerves are frayed and unless you mindyour step you're going to go dippy. Catch on? There are places wherenothing happens. Nothing ever has happened. Go and find such a holeand stay in it a month, six weeks--longer, if you can. Be a part ofthe nothingness and save your life. Break all the commandments, ifthere are any, but don't look back! I've seen big cures come fromletting go! I'll look after your mother and Kathryn. "

The telephone here interrupted. 

"All right! all right!" snapped Manly into the receiver, "set theoperation for ten to-morrow and have the hair shaved from the side ofher head. "

Then he turned back to Northrup as if disfiguring a woman were amatter of no importance. 

"The fact is, Northrup, most of us get glued to our own narrow slitsin the wall, most of us are chained to them by our jobs and we get tosquinting, if we don't get blinded. I'm not saying that we don't eachhave a slit and should know it; but your job requires moving about andpeering through other fellows' slits, and lately, ever since that lastbook of yours, you've kept to your hole; the fever caught you at thewrong time and this mess across seas has got mixed up with it alluntil you're no use to yourself or any one else. Beat it!"

Something like a wave of fresh air seemed to have entered the quiet, warm room. Northrup raised his head. Manly took heed and rambled on;he saw that he was making an impression at last. 

"Queer things jog you into consciousness when you detach yourself fromyour moorings. A mountain-top, a baby's hold on your finger, whenyou're about to hurt it. A sunset, a woman's face; a moment when yourealize your soul! You're never the same after, Northrup, but you doyour job better and your slit in the wall is wider. Man, you need ajog. "

"What jogged you, Manly?"

This was daring. People rarely questioned Manly. 

"It was seeing my soul!" Quite simply the answer came. 

There was a long, significant silence. Both men had to travel back tothe commonplace and they felt their way gingerly. 

"Northrup, drop things. It is your friend speaking now. Go where theroar and rumble of what doesn't concern you haven't reached. Good-night. "

Northrup got up slowly. 

"I wonder if there is such a place?" he muttered. 

"Sure, old man. Outside of this old sounding-board of New York, thereare nooks where nothing even echoes. Usually you find good fishing inthem. Come now, get out!"

CHAPTER I

Brace Northrup received the first intimation of his jog when heknocked on the door of a certain little yellow house set rakishly atthe crossroads, a few miles from King's Forest. 

The house gave the impression of wanting to go somewhere but had notdecided upon the direction. Its many windows of shining glass werelike wide-open eyes peering cheerfully forth on life, curiouslyinterested and hopeful. The shades, if there were any, were rolledfrom sight. It might have seemed an empty house but for the appearanceof care and a curl of smoke from the chimney. 

Northrup walked across the bit of lawn leading, pathless, to the stonestep, and knocked on the door. It was a very conservative knock butinstantly the door swung in--it was that kind of a door, a welcomingdoor--and Northrup was precipitated into a room which, at firstglance, appeared to be full of sunlight, children, and dogs. 

As a matter of fact there were two or three little children and anolder girl with a strange, vague face; four dogs and a young personseated on the edge of a table and engaged, apparently, beforeNorthrup's arrival, in telling so thrilling a story that the small, absorbed audience barely noted his entrance. They turned mildlyinterested eyes upon him much as they might have upon an unnecessaryillustration adorning the tale. 

The figure on the table wore rough knickerbockers, high, rather muddyboots, a loose jacket, and a cap set crookedly on the head. WhenNorthrup spoke, the young person turned and he saw that it was awoman. There was no surprise, at first, in the eyes which metNorthrup's--the door of the little yellow house was constantlyadmitting visitors--but suddenly the expression changed to one ofstartled wonder. It was the expression of one who, never expecting asurprise, suddenly is taken unawares. 

"I beg your pardon!" stammered Northrup. "I assure you I did knock. Imerely want to ask the direction and distance of Heathcote Inn. Crossroads are so confusing when one is tired and hungry and----"

Once having begun to speak, Northrup was too embarrassed to stop. Theeyes confronting him were most disconcerting. They smiled; they seemedto be glad he was there; the girl apparently was enjoying thesituation. 

"The inn is three miles down the south road; the lake is just beyond. Follow that. They serve dinner at the inn at one. "

The voice was like the eyes, friendly, vital, and lovely. 

Then, as if staged, a clock set on a high shelf announced in crisp, terse tones the hour of twelve. 

"Thank you. "

That was all. The incident was closed and Northrup backed out, drawingthe humorous door after him. As the latch caught he heard a thin, reedy voice, probably belonging to the vague girl, say:

"Now that he's gone, please go on. You got to where----"

Northrup found himself at the crossroads where, five minutes before, he had stood, and there, in plain sight of any one not marked by Fatefor a turning-point, was a sign-board in perfectly good condition, stating the fact that if one followed the direction, indicated by along, tapering finger, for three miles, he would come to HeathcoteInn, "Open All the Year. "

"The girl must take me for a fool, or worse!" thought Northrup. Thenhe was conscious of a feeling that he had left something behind him inthat room he had just invaded. But no! His gripsack was securelyfastened on his back, his walking stick was in his hand, his hat uponhis head. Still he felt that lack of something. 

"It's the air!" Northrup sniffed it. "I'm as hungry as a wolf, too. Hungry as I used to be twenty years ago. " Northrup was twenty-seven. "Lord! what a day. "

It was a day with which to reckon, there was no doubt about that. Anautumn day of silence, crispness, and colour. Suddenly, somethingManly had said came hurtingly into Northrup's consciousness: ". .. _ora woman's face!_"

Then, because of the day and a certain regained strength, Northruplaughed and shook off that impression of having left something behindhim and set off at a brisk rate on the road to the inn. He soon cameto the lake. It lay to the right of the road. The many-coloured hillsrose protectingly on the left. All along the edge of the water aflaming trail of sumach marked the curves where the obliging landwithdrew as the lake intruded. 

"I might be a thousand miles from home, " Northrup thought as he swungalong. 

In reality, he had been only a week on his way and had taken it easy. He had made no plans; had walked until he was weary, had slept wherehe could find quarters, and was doing what he had all his life wantedto do, and which at last Manly had given him courage to do: leave theself that circumstances had evolved and take to the open trail, seeking, as Manly had figuratively put it, his real self. 

During his long illness reality seemed to have fallen from hisperceptions--or was it unreality? He knew that he must find out or hecould never again hope to take his place among men with any assurance. As far as he could he must cut himself off from the past, blot out thetime-honoured prejudices that might or might not be legitimate. Hemust settle that score!

Northrup was a tall, lean man with a slant of the body that suggestedresistance. His face, too, carried out the impression. The eyes, deepset and keenly gray, brooded questioningly when the humour of asituation did not control them. The mouth was not an architecturalmouth; the lines had been evolved; the mouth was still in the making. It might become hard or bitter: it could never become cruel. There washope in the firm jaw, and the week of outdoor air and sun had donemuch to remove the pallor of sickness and harden the muscles. 

With every mile that set him apart from his old environment the eyesgrew less gloomy; the lines of the mouth more relaxed: in fact, Northrup's appearance at that moment might have made Manly sympathizewith the creator of Frankenstein. The released Northrup held startlingpossibilities. 

Striding ahead, whistling, swinging his stick, he permitted himself torecall the face of the woman in the yellow house. He had taken thefaces of women in the past largely for granted. They representedtypes, ages, periods. Only once before had he become aware of whatLife, as he had not known it, could do to women's faces: While he waswriting his last book--the one that had lifted him from a low literarylevel and set him hopefully upon a higher--he had lived, for a time, on the lower East Side of New York; had confronted the ugly results ofan existence evolved from chance, not design. 

But this last face--Life had done something to it that he could notcomprehend. What was it? Then Northrup suddenly concluded that Lifehad done nothing to it--had, in fact, left it alone. At this point, Northrup resorted to detail. Her eyes were almost golden: the lashesmade them seem darker. The face was young and yet it held thatexpression of age that often marks the faces of children: a wonderinglook, yet sweetly contemptuous: not quite confident, but amused. 

Now he had it! The face was like a mirror; it reflected thought andimpression. Life had had nothing to do with it. Very good, so far. 

"And her voice! Queer voice to be found here"--Northrup was keen aboutvoices; they instantly affected him. "Her voice had tones in it thatvibrated. It might be the product of--well, everything which itprobably wasn't. "

This was laughable. 

Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen TheFace in the flaming bushes by the roadside. 

"I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and theinn?" He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and wearinesswere overcoming moods and fancies. There was not. The gold andscarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertinglyby the lake. 

There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sangand fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and formof every branch and twig. 

In another half hour Northrup saw the inn on ahead. He knew it at oncefrom a picture-card he had bought earlier in the day. It set so closeto the lake as to give the impression of getting its feet wet. It wasa long, low white building with more windows, doors, and chimneys thanseemed necessary. Everything looked trim and neat and smoke curledbriskly above the hospitable house. There were, apparently, many firesin action, and they bespoke comfort and food. 

Northrup, upon reaching the inn, saw that a mere strip of lawnseparated it from the road and lake, the piazza was on a level withthe ground and three doors gave choice of entrance to the wayfarer. Northrup chose the one near the middle and respectfully tapped on it, drawing back instantly. He did not mean to have a second joke playedupon him by doors. 

There was a stirring inside, a dog gave a sleepy grunt, and a man'svoice called out:

"The bolt's off. "

It would seem that doors were incidental barriers in King's Forest. Noone was expected to regard them seriously. 

Northrup entered and then stood still. 

He was alive to impressions, and this second room, within a shortspace of time, had power, also, to arouse surprise. There was nosunlight here--the overshadowing piazza prevented that--but there weretwo enormous fireplaces, one at either end of the large room, and uponthe hearths of both generous fires were burning ruddily. 

By the one nearer to Northrup sat a man with a bandaged leg stretchedout before him on a stool, and a gold-and-white collie at his side. The man was elderly, stout, and imposing. His curly gray hairsprang--no other word conveyed the impression of the vitality andalertness of the hair--above a rosy, genial face; the eyes weresmall, keen, and full of humour, the voice had already given asuggestion of welcome. 

"You are Mr. Heathcote, I suppose?"

Northrup was subconsciously aware of the good old mahogany furniture;the well-kept appearance of everything. 

"You've struck it right. Will you set?"

"Thanks. "

Northrup took the chair opposite the master of the inn. 

"My name is Northrup, Brace Northrup from New York. "

"Footing it?" Heathcote was rapidly making one of his suddenestimates; generally he did not take the trouble to do this, but somepeople called forth his approval or disapproval at once. 

"Yes. I've taken my time, been a week on the way and, incidentally, recovering from an illness. "

"Pausing or staying on?"

Northrup meant to say "pausing"; instead he found himself stating thathe'd like to stay on if he could be accommodated. 

"We'll have to consult Aunt Polly as to that, " said Heathcote. "Yousee I'm rather off my legs just now. Gander! Great bird, that gander. He lit out two weeks ago and cut me to the bone with his wing. He'sgot a wing like a hatchet. I'll be about in a day or two and takingcommand, but until then I have to let my sister have her say as towhat burdens she feels she can carry. "

For a moment Northrup regarded himself, mentally, as a burden. It wasa new sensation and he felt like putting up a plea; but before hecould frame one Heathcote gave a low whistle and almost at once a doorat the rear opened, admitting a fragrance of delectable food and thesmallest woman Northrup had ever seen. That so fragile a creaturecould bear any responsibility outside that due herself, was difficultto comprehend until one looked into the strange, clear eyes peeringthrough glasses, set awry. Unquenchable youth and power lay deep inthose piercing eyes; there was force that could command the slightbody to do its bidding. 

"Polly, this is Mr. Northrup, from New York"--was there lurkingamusement in the tone?--"He wants to stop on; what do you say? It's upto you and don't hesitate to speak your mind. "

The woman regarded the candidate for her favour much as she mighthave a letter of introduction; quite impersonally but decidedlyjudicially. 

"If Mr. Northrup will take pot luck and _as is_, I think he can stay, brother. "

Northrup had an unreasoning sense of relief. All his life his pulsesquickened when what he desired seemed about to elude him. He smiled, now, like a boy. 

"Thank you, " he ventured, "you'll find me most grateful andadaptable. "

"Well, since that's settled, " Aunt Polly seemed to pigeonhole herguest and label him as an individual, "I'll run out and lay anotherplate. You just go along upstairs and pick out your room. They are allready. The front ones open to the lake and the west; the back ones areeast and woodsy; outside of that there isn't much choice. It's one o'clock now, but I can put things back a spell and give you a chance towash before dinner. "

Northrup picked up his bag and hat and started for the stairs at thefar end of the room. The sense of unreality was still upon him. Hefelt like breathing low and stepping light. The sensation smacked ofmagic. So long as one could believe it, it would hold, but once youdoubted, the old, grim existence would snatch you!

Upstairs the hall ran from north to south of the rambling house, oneither side the doors opened, leading to small, orderly rooms, apparently alike except in detail of colour and placing of furniture. There was a hearth in every room, upon which lay wood ready to lightand beside which stood huge baskets of logs giving promise ofunlimited comfort. Fresh towels and water were on stands, and the bedsfairly reached out to tired bodies with assurances of rest and sleep. Northrup went, still treading light and believing, from door to door, and then he chose a west room because the lapping of the lake soundedlike a lullaby. 

It was the work of a few moments to drop dust-stained garments andplunge one's head into the icy water; a few moments more and arefreshed man emerged from a vigorous rubbing and gave a laugh ofsheer delight. 

"I'm in for it!" he muttered, still clinging to the mood of unreality. "I bet my last nickel that something's going to happen and by the lordHarry! I'm going to see it through. This is one of those holes Manlyprophesied about. Looks as if it had been waiting for me to come. "

He was downstairs in time to help his host to the head of his table, in the adjoining room. They made rather an imposing procession, AuntPolly leading, the golden collie bringing up the rear. 

Heathcote in a fat whisper gave some staccato advice en route: "Bettercall sister 'Aunt Polly' at once. If you don't suggest offishness, none will be suspected. Fall in line, I say! Dog's name is Ginger. Animals like to be tagged, more human-like. Act as if you always hadbeen, or had come back. If there's one thing Polly can't abide, it'shitting a snag. "

Devoutly Northrup vowed he'd be no snag. 

He took his place on the east side of the table, so to speak, and thelake was in front of him. The lake was becoming a vital feature in thenew environment. 

The water was ruffled now; the reflections trembled and the lappingwas more insistent. 

The food was excellent. Aunt Polly had prepared it and watched, with atrue artist's eye, her guest's appreciation of it. 

"Food is just food to some folks, " she confided, casting a slantwiseglance at her brother, "just what you might call fodder. But I allashave held that, viewed rightly, it feeds body _and_ soul. "

Heathcote chuckled. 

"And right you are, Aunt Polly!" Northrup said, watching the effect ofhis familiarity. Nothing occurred. He was being taken for granted. 

Bits of history crept into the easy conversation during the meal. Apparently meal-time was a function at the inn, not an episode. 

Heathcote and his sister, it appeared, had come to King's Forest forhis health, fifty years before. He was twenty then; Aunt Pollyeighteen. 

"Just like silly pioneers, " Polly broke in, "but we found health andwork and we grew to love the place. We feel toward it as one does toan adopted child, less understanding, but more responsible. Every onceso often, when we got into ruts, God Almighty made us realize that Hewas keeping His hand on the reins, " the dear old soul chuckledhappily. "Peter got himself made into a magistrate and that wassomething to work with. We made a home and friends, but the Forestisn't an easy proposition. It ain't changed much. It's lazy and rough, and I often tell Peter that the place is like two old folks over onthe Point, Twombley and Peneluna. Still and scroogy, but keeping up amighty lot of thinking. If anything ever wakes the Forest up it'sgoing to show what it's been cogitating about. "

"Is there a village?" Northrup asked. 

"There's one seven miles from here, " Heathcote replied; "stores, postoffice, a Methodist minister--necessary evils, you know, " this camewith a fat chuckle, "but the Forest ain't anything but the Forest. Houses sorter dropped down carelesslike where someone's fancy fixed'em. There used to be a church and school. The school burned down; thechurch, half finished, stands like a hint for better living, on alittle island a half mile down the line. There's the Point where thefolks live as can't get a footing elsewhere. There's always a Point ora Hollow, you know. And there's the Mines, back some miles to thesouth. Iron that used to be worked. Queer holdings!"

Peter paused. Sustained conversation always made him pant and gavePolly an opportunity to edge in. 

"As I was saying, " she began calmly, "every once so often God Almightymade us realize that He had His hand on the reins. When me and Petergot to acting as if we owned things, someone new happened alongand--stuck. 

"First there was old Doctor Rivers. We never rightly knew where hecame from, or why. By and by we got to feeling we best showed our loveand respect by not wondering about him. 

"Then after the doctor did his stint and left his mark, Maclin came. We're studying over Maclin yet. He bought the Mines and kinder settleddown on us all like a heavy air that ain't got any set of the wind. "

Aunt Polly was picturesque. Peter eyed her admiringly and gave hiscomfortable chuckle. 

"Sister holds, " he explained, "that the Forest isn't the God-forsakenplace it looks to be, but is a rich possibility. I differ, and that iswhat queers Maclin with us. His buying those wore-out mines and sayinghe's going to _make_ the Forest is damaging evidence against him. Heain't no fool: then what is he? That's what we're conjuring with. Maclin ain't seeing himself in partnership with the Almighty, not he!One-man firm for Maclin. "

"Now, brother!" Polly remarked while Heathcote was catching hisbreath, "I say give a good doubt to a man till you have to give a badone. We've no right to judge Maclin yet, he's only just begun to havehis say-so out loud, and put out feelers. "

"And now"--Peter put his plate down for the faithful Ginger to lapclean, and prepared to rise--"and now, you've come, stranger. When youhesitated a time back as to whether you was pausing or staying on, Ijust held my breath, and when you slapped out, 'staying on, ' I thoughtto myself, 'Now, which is he, a dispensation of Providence or just aplain passer-by?'"

Northrup smiled grimly. This all fitted into his own vague mood ofunreality. 

"You mustn't take me seriously, " he said, going around the table tohelp his host. "I'm as ordinary as the majority. I like the looks ofthings here. I stop and enjoy myself, and pass on! That's the usualway, isn't it?"

"Yes"--Polly began gathering the dishes--"it's what happens while onestops, that counts. That, and what one leaves behind, when he passeson. It's real queer, though, to have any one staying on this season ofthe year. "

During the afternoon Northrup wandered in the woods which roseabruptly from behind the house. So still was the brilliant forest thata falling leaf startled him and a scurrying creature among the bushesset his nerves tingling. Then it was that the haunting face and voiceof the girl in the little yellow house rose again with an insistencethat could not be disregarded. It dominated his thought; it was partof this strange sense of shadowy and coming events; it refused to beset aside. 

It did not mock him--he could have dealt with that phase--it pleaded. It seemed to implore him to accept it along with his quickened pulses;the colour of the autumn day; the sweetness of the smell of crushedleaves; the sound of lapping water; the song of birds. 

"I wonder who she is, and why she looks as she does?"

Northrup ceased to scoff at his fancy; he wooed it. He pictured thegirl's hair loose from the rough cap--curly, rather wild hair with anuplift in every tendril. What colour was it? Gold-brown probably, likethe eyes. For five minutes he tried to decide this but knew that hewould have to see it again to make sure. 

The face was a small face, but it was strong and unutterablyappealing. A hungry little face; a face whose soul was ill-nourished, a contradictory face. 

Northrup called himself to order just here. He wasn't going to be anass, not if he could help it!

"Strange voice!" he thought on. "It had _calls_ in it. I _am_ an ass!"he admitted, and in order to get the better of the situation he turnedsharply and went back to the inn. 

CHAPTER II

Northrup decided to refrain from asking questions. Long ago hediscovered that he could gain more from a receptive state of mind thanan inquiring one. 

He began to understand his peculiar mental excitement. Manly wasright. All that was needed to bring about complete recovery wasdetachment and opportunity for his machinery to get into action. Heknew the signs. The wheels were beginning to turn!

Now from Northrup's point of view this was all right; but his suddenappearance in a place where bad roads and no reason for coming usuallykept people out, caused a ripple to reach from the inn to the Pointand even the Mines, twelve miles away. 

The people took time before accepting strangers; they had not yetdigested Maclin, and in silent disapproval they regarded Northrup asin some way connected with Maclin. 

The mine owner had been more or less familiar to the Forest forseveral years: his coming and going were watched and speculated upon. Recently he had imported foreign labour, much to the sneering contemptof the natives whose philosophy did not include the necessity ofperpetual work and certainly repudiated the idea of outsidersoriginating a new system. But Northrup was not a foreigner. He must beregarded from a different angle. 

Aunt Polly made it her business, after the first few days, to startpropaganda of a safe and inspiring character about her guest. Whilenot committing herself to any definite statement, she made it knownthat if Northrup had any connection with Maclin, he was against him, not for him. 

Maclin just then was the hub from which the spokes of curiosity led. 

"He couldn't be for Maclin, " Polly had said to Peter. "You know thatas well as I do, Peter Heathcote. And getting facts signed andwitnessed is an awful waste of time. The Lord gave women a sixth senseand it's a powerful sight surer than affidavits. "

Peter grunted. So long as Polly hinted and made no statements he wascontent. He believed she was partly right. He thought Northrup mightbe on Maclin's trail, and from appearances Peter had confidence in hisguest's ability to run his quarry to earth where, heretofore, othersof the Forest had failed. 

He liked Northrup, believed in him, and while he sat and nursed hisleg, he let Polly do her hinting. 

It was the evening of Northrup's third day at the inn when the three, with Ginger blinking contentedly, sat by the fire. Polly knitted andsmiled happily. She had drifted that day into calling Northrup "Brace"and that betokened surrender. Peter puffed and regarded his bandagedleg--he had taken a few steps during the afternoon, leaning onNorthrup's arm, and his mood was one of supreme satisfaction. 

Breaking the silence, now and again, an irritating sound of a bellintruded. It was a disconcerting note for it had a wild quality as ifit were being run away with and was sending forth an appeal. Loud;soft; near; distant. 

"Is there a church around here?" Northrup asked at last. 

"There is, " Heathcote replied, taking the pipe from his lips. "It'sthe half-built church I mentioned to you. A bit down the line you cometo a bridge across an arm of the lake. On a little island is thechapel. It ain't ever used now. Remember, Polly, " Heathcote turned tohis sister, "the last time the Bishop came here? Mary-Clare was aboutas high as nothing, and just getting over the mumps. She got panickywhen she heard of the Bishop, asked ole Doc if she could catch it. Iguess the Bishop wasn't catching! Yes, sir, the church is there, butit's deserted. "

"What is the bell ringing for?" Northrup roused, more because thename of Mary-Clare had been introduced than because the bellinterested him. 

He knew, now, that the girl in the yellow house was Mary-Clare. Hername slipped into sound frequently, but that was all. 

"Who is ringing the bell?"

Aunt Polly rolled her knitting carefully and set her glasses aslant onthe top of her head. Northrup soon learned that the angle and positionof Aunt Polly's spectacles were significant. 

"No human hands are ringing the bell, " she remarked quietly. "I holdone notion, Peter another. _I_ say the _bell_ is ha'nted; calling, calling folks, making them remember!"

"Now, Polly!" Peter knocked the ashes from his pipe on to Ginger'sback. "Don't get to criss-crossing and apple-sassing about that bell. "He turned to Northrup and winked. 

"Women is curious, " he admitted. "When things are flat and lackingflavour they put in a pinch of this or that to spice them up. Factis--there's a change of wind and it ain't sot yet. While it's shiftingaround it hits, once so often, a chink in the belfry that's got to bemended some day. That's the sum and tee-total of Polly's ha'ntedtower. "

Then, as if the question escaped without his sanction and quite to hisconsternation, Northrup spoke again:

"Who lives in the yellow house by the crossroads?"

This was not honest. Northrup knew _who_. What he wanted to say, buthad not dared, was: "Tell me about her. "

"I reckon you mean Mary-Clare. " Aunt Polly shook a finger at Ginger. "That dog, " she added, "jest naturally hates the bell ringing. Animalssense more than men!"

This slur escaped Peter, he was intent upon Northrup's question. 

"Seen that girl in the yellow house?" he asked. "Great girl, Mary-Clare. Great girl. "

"I stopped there on my way here to ask directions. Rather unusuallooking girl. "

"She is that!" Peter nodded. Mary-Clare was about the only bit ofromance Peter permitted himself. "Remember the night Mary-Clare wasborn, Polly?"

Of course Polly remembered. Northrup felt fully convinced that Pollyknew everything in King's Forest and never forgot it. She nodded, drewher spectacles over her eyes, and continued her knitting while Peterhit the high spots of Mary-Clare's past. Somehow the shallows Northrupwas filling while he listened. 

Peter was in his element and drawled on:

"The wildest storm you ever saw round these parts--snow and gale; theydon't usually hang together long, but they did that night. It was aregular night if there ever was one. Nobody stirring abroad 'less hehad to. Ole Doc was out--someone over the mine-way had got mussed upwith the machinery. Ole Doc was a minister as well as a doctor. He'dtried both jobs and used to say it came in handy, but he leaned mostto medicine as being, what you might say, more practical. "

"You needn't be sacrilegious, brother, " Polly interjected. "The storywon't lose anything by holding to reverence. "

"Oh, well, " Heathcote chuckled, "have it any way you want to. Ole Dochad us coming and going, that's what I'm getting over. If he found hecouldn't help folks to live, he plumped about and helped 'em todie. Great man, ole Doc! Came as you did, son, and settled. We neverknew anything about his life before he took root here. Well, thatnight I'm telling you about, he was on his way back from the mineswhen he spied a fire on the up-side of the lake. He said it lookedmighty curious shining and flaming in the blinding whiteness. Itwas Dan Hamlin's shack. Later we heard what had happened. Dan hadcome home drunk--when he wasn't drunk you couldn't find a decenterman than Hamlin, but liquor made him quarrelsome. His wife wasgoing to have a baby--Mary-Clare, to be exact--and when he came inwith Jack Seaver, the mail-carrier, there was a row on concerningsomething Seaver hadn't brought that Hamlin had ordered for hiswife. There never was any reasoning with Hamlin when he wasdrunk, so Seaver tried to settle the question by a fight. Seaver waslike that--never had any patience. Lamp turned over, set the shackon fire!" Peter breathed hard. 

"Mrs. Hamlin ran for her life and the two men ran from justice. Seavercame back later and told the story. Hamlin shot himself the followingday when he heard what had happened. Blamed fool! Mary-Clare was left, but she didn't seem to amount to much in the beginning. It was thisway: Mrs. Hamlin ran till she fell in a snowdrift. Ole Doc found herthere. " Heathcote paused. The logs fell apart and the room grew hot. Northrup started as if roused from a dream. 

"Yes, sir!" Heathcote went on. "Ole Doc found her there and, well, sir, he was doctor and minister for sure that night. There wasn't nochoice as you might say. Mary-Clare was born in that snowdrift, andthe mother died there! Ole Doc took 'em both home later. "

"Good God!" ejaculated Northrup. "That's the grimmest tale I everlistened to. What came next?"

"The funeral--a double one, for they brought Hamlin's body back. Thenthe saving of Mary-Clare. Polly and I wanted her--but ole Doc saidhe'd have to keep an eye on her for a while--she seemed sorterpetering out for some time, and then when she took a turn and caughton, you couldn't pry her away from ole Doc. He gave her his name andeverything else. His wife was dead; his boy away to school, hishousekeeper was a master hand with babies, and somehow ole Doc got tofiguring out that Mary-Clare was a recompense for what he'd lost inwomen folks, and so he raised her and taught her. Good Lord, theeducation he pumped into that girl! He wouldn't let her go to school, but whenever he happened to think of anything he taught it to her, andhe was powerful educated. Said he wanted to see what he could do byanswering her questions and letting her think things out for herself. Remember, Polly, how Mary-Clare used to ride behind ole Doc with abook braced up against his back?"

Aunt Polly lifted the sock she was knitting and wiped her eyes. 

"Mary-Clare just naturally makes you laugh and cry at once, " the oldvoice replied, "remembering her is real diverting. She came fromplain, decent stock, but something was grafted onto her while she wasyoung and it made a new kind of girl of Mary-Clare. So loving andloyal. " Again Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. 

"And brave and grateful, " Heathcote took up his story, "and terriblefar-seeing. I don't hold with Polly that Mary-Clare became somethingnew by grafting. Seems more like she was two girls, both keeping paceand watching out and one standing guard if the other took a time off. I never did feel sure ole Doc was quite fair with Mary-Clare. Withoutmeaning to, he got a stranglehold on that girl. She'd have trotted offto hell for him, or with him. She'd have held her head high andlaughed it off, too. I don't suppose any one on God's earth actuallyknows what the real Mary-Clare thinks about things on her own hook, but you bet she has ideas!"

Northrup was more interested than he had been in many a day. The storythrilled him. The girl of the yellow house loomed large upon hisvision and he began to understand. He was not one to scoff at thingsbeyond the pale of exact science; his craft was one that took much forgranted that could not be reduced to fact. Standing at the door of thelittle yellow house he had become a victim of suggestion. Thataccounted for it. The mists were passing. He had not been such an ass, after all. 

"So! that is your old doctor's place down by the crossroads?" he saidwith a genuine sense of relief. 

"It was. Ole Doc died seven years back. "

"What became of his son--you said he had a boy?" Northrup wasgathering the threads in his hands. Nothing must escape him; it wasall grist. 

"Oh! Larry came off and on the scene. There are them as think ole Docdidn't treat Larry fair and square. I don't know, but anyway, justbefore ole Doc was struck with that stroke that finished him, Larrycame home and seemed to be forgiving enough, if there had been anywrong done. He had considerable education; ole Doc had given him thatchance, but Larry drifted--allas was, and still is, a drifter. We allstand pat for the feller on account of his father and Mary-Clare. Itwas a blamed risky thing, though, Larry's marrying Mary-Clare! I allaswill hold to that!"

Once, when Northrup was a young boy, he had been shocked byelectricity. The memory of his experience often recurred to him inmoments of stress. He had been standing within a few yards of the treethat had been shattered, and he had fallen unconscious. When he cameto, he was vividly aware of the slightest details of sight and soundsurrounding him. His senses seemed to have been quickened during thelapse of time. He winced at the light; the flickering of leaves abovehim hurt; the song of birds beat against his brain with sweet clamour, and he vaguely wondered what had happened to him; where he had been?

In like manner Northrup, now, was aware of a painful keenness of hissenses. Heathcote looked large and his voice vibrated in the quietroom; Aunt Polly seemed dwindling, physically, while something abouther--the light playing on her knitting needles and spectacles, probably--radiated. The crackling logs were like claps of thunder. Northrup pulled himself to an upright position as one does who resistshypnotism. 

"I'm afraid you're tiring Brace, brother. "

Aunt Polly's voice, low, even, and calm, got into the confusion as asoft breeze had, that day so long ago, and brought full consciousnessin its wake. 

"On the other hand, " Northrup gave a relieved laugh, "I am intenselyinterested. You see, she looks so young, that Mrs. --Mrs. ----"

"Rivers?" suggested Heathcote refilling his pipe. "Lord! I wonder ifany one ever called Mary-Clare Mrs. Rivers before, Polly?" Heathcotepaused, then went on:

"Yes; Mary-Clare holds her own and her boy-togs help the idea. Mary-Clare ain't properly grown up, anyway. Some parts of her areterrible strong and thrifty; parts as has caught the sunlight, so tospeak, and been sheltered from blasts. The other parts of her ain'twhat you might say shrivelled, but they've kept hid and they ain'tever on exhibition. "

"How ridiculous you _are_, brother. " Aunt Polly was enjoying herbrother's flights, but felt called upon to keep him in order. 

"Oh! it's just a blamed amusing fancy of mine, " Heathcote chuckled, "to calculate 'bout Mary-Clare. You see, being a magistrate, I marriedMary-Clare to Larry, and I've never been at ease about the thing, though I had to put it through. There lay ole Doc looking volumes andnot being able to speak a word--nothing to do for him but keep himcompany and try to find out what he wanted. He kept on wantingsomething like all possessed. Larry and Mary-Clare hung over himasking, was it this or that? and his big, burning eyes sorterflickering, never steady. I recall old Peneluna Todd was there and shesaid the young uns were pestering the ole Doc. Then, it was 'longabout midnight, Larry rose up from asking some question, and there wasa new look on his face, a white, frozen kind of look. Mary-Clarekinder sprang at him. 'What is it?' she whispered, and I ain't neverforgot her face. At first Larry didn't answer and he began shaking, like he had the chills. 

"'You must tell me, Larry!' Mary-Clare went up close and took Larry bythe shoulders as if she was going to tear his secret from him. Thenshe went on to say how he had no right to keep anything from her--her, as would give her soul for the ole Doc. She meant it, too. Well, Larrysort of dragged it out of himself. Ole Doc wanted him and Mary-Clareto marry! That was what was wanted! There wasn't much time to considerthings, but Mary-Clare went close to the bed and knelt down and saidslowly and real tender:

"'You can hear me, can't you, Daddy?' The flicker in ole Doc's eyessteadied. I reckon any call of Mary-Clare's could halt him, short ofthe other side of Jordan. 'Then, dearie Dad, listen. ' Just like thatshe said it. I remember every word. 'You want me to marry Larry--now?It would make you--happy?' The steady look seemed to kinder freeze. Icalled it a listening look more than an understanding one. I'll allashold to that, but God knows there warn't much time to calculate. Peneluna began acting up but Mary-Clare set her aside. 

"'All right, Daddy darling!' she whispered, and with that she stood upand said to me, 'You marry us at once! Come close so that he can seeand know!'

"Things go here in the Forest that don't go elsewhere; I marriedthem two because I couldn't help it--something drew me on. Andthen just when I got to the end, ole Doc rose up like he waslifted--he stared at what was passing; tried to say something, andsank back smiling--dead!"

Northrup wiped his forehead. There were drops of perspiration on it, and his breath came roughly through his throat; he seemed part of thedramatic scene. 

"Satisfied, _I_ say!" broke in Aunt Polly. "It _was_ a big risk, butthe dying see far, and the doctor had left all he had to Mary-Clare, which didn't seem just right to his flesh-and-blood boy, and I guesshe wanted to mend a bad matter the only way he could. "

"Maybe!" sighed Peter. "Maybe. But he took big chances even for adying man. I couldn't get rid of the notion that when he cottoned towhat had been done, he sorter threw up his hands! But what happened toMary-Clare just took my breath. 'Pon my soul, as I looked at her itwas like I saw her going away after ole Doc and leaving, in her place, a new, different woman that really didn't count so long as she lookedafter things while the real Mary-Clare went about her business. It wasdisturbing and I felt downright giddy. "

"You're downright silly, Peter Heathcote"--Polly tossed her knittingaside and shifted the pillows of the couch--"making Mary-Clare out theway you do when she's ordinary enough and doing her life tasks same asother folks. "

"How has it worked out?" Northrup heard the words as if another spokethem. 

"I guess, friend, that's what no one actually knows. " Peter pulled onhis pipe. "Larry is on and off. Maclin, over to the mines, seems to dothe ordering of Larry's coming and going. Darned funny business, Isay. However, there you are. When Larry is home I guess the wayMary-Clare holds her head and laughs gets on his nerves. No man likesto feel that he can't clutch hold of his wife, but it comes to that, say what you will, Mary-Clare keeps free of things in a mighty oddfashion; I mean the real part of her; the other part goes regularenough. 

"She don't slacken up on her plain duty. What the ole Doc left sheshares right enough with Larry; she keeps the house like it should bekept, and she's a good second to Polly here, where fodder isconcerned. But something happened when Larry was last home that leakedout somehow. A girl called Jan-an let it slip. Not a quarrel exactly, but a thing that wasn't rightfully settled. Larry was ordered off, sudden, by Maclin, but take it from me, when Larry comes back he'llget his innings. Larry isn't what you could call a sticker, but hegets there all the same. He ain't going to let any woman go too farwith him. That's where Larry comes out strong--with women. "

"I don't know as you ought to talk so free, brother. " Polly lookeddubious. 

"In the meantime, " Northrup said quietly, "the little wife lives alonein the yellow house, waiting?" He hadn't heard Polly's caution. 

He was thinking of Mary-Clare's look when she confronted him the dayof his coming. Was she expecting her husband? Had she learned to lovehim? Was she that kind of woman? The kind that thrives on neglect andindifference?

"Not alone, as you might say, " Heathcote's voice drawled. "There'sNoreen, her little girl, you know. Noreen seems at times to be about athousand years older than her mother, but by actual count she's goingon six, ain't that it, Polly?"

Again Northrup felt as he had that day by the lightning-shatteredtree. 

"Her little girl?" he asked slowly, and Aunt Polly raised her eyes tohis face. She looked troubled, vaguely uneasy. 

"Yep!" Peter rose stiffly. He wanted to go to bed. "Noreen's thesaving from the litter. How many was there, Polly?"

Polly got upon her feet, the trouble-look growing in her eyes. 

"Noreen had a twin as was dead, " she said tenderly. "Then the last onelived two hours--that's all, brother. " She walked to the window. "Thestorm is setting this way, " she went on. "Just listen to that lakeacting up as if it was the ocean. "

The riotous swish of the water sounded distant but insistent in thewarm, quiet room, and faintly, at rare intervals, the bell, rung byunseen forces, struck dully. It had given up the struggle. 

Northrup, presently, had a strong inclination to say to his host thathe had changed his mind and must leave on the morrow. That courseseemed the only safe and wise one. 

"But why?" Something new and uncontrolled demanded an answer. Why, indeed? Why should anything he had heard cause him to change hisplans? This hectic story of a young woman had set his imaginationafire, but it must not make a fool of him. What really was takingplace became presently overpoweringly convincing. 

"I am going to write!"

That was it! The story had struck his dull brain into action and hehad been caught in time, before running away. He had gained the thinghe had been pursuing, and he might have let it escape! The woman ofthe yellow house became a mere bearer of a rare gift--his restoredpower! He was safe; everything was safe. The world had righted itselfat last. It wasn't the woman with the dun-coloured ending to her storythat mattered; it was the story. 

"I think I'll turn in, " he said, stifling a yawn, "Good-night. "

"Don't hurry about breakfast, " Aunt Polly said gently. "Breakfast isonly a starter, I always hold. It's like kindlings to start the biglogs. Sleep well, and God bless you!"

She smiled up at her guest as if he were an old friend--come back!

Up in his room Northrup had difficulty in keeping himself from work. He dared not begin; if he did he would write all night. He must besure. In the meantime, he wrote to his mother:

 By the above heading you'll see how far I've got on my way, searching for my lost health. I'm really in great shape. Manly was right: I had to let go! I'm struggling now between two courses. Apparently I was in a blue funk; all I needed was to find it out. Well, I've found it out. Shall I come home and prove it by doing the sensible thing, or shall I go on and make it doubly sure? If anything important turns up I would telegraph, but in case I _do_ go on I want to do the job thoroughly and for a time lose myself. I will wait your word, Mother. 

Northrup was not seeking to deceive any one. He might strike out fornew places in a week, or he might, if the mood held, write in King'sForest. It all depended upon the mood. What really mattered was anunfettered state. 

The vagrant in him, that had been starved and denied, rose supreme. Now that he was sure that he was going to write, had a big theme, there was excuse for his desire to be free. He would return to hischink in the wall, as Manly explained, better fitted for it and with awider vision. He had a theory that a writer was, more or less, like aperson with a contagious disease: he should be exiled until all dangerto the peace and happiness of others was past. If only the evenlybalanced folks would see that and not act as if they were beinginsulted!

While he undressed, Northrup was sketching his plot mentally. In themorning it would be _fixed_; it would be more like copying thancreating when a pen was resorted to. 

"I'll take that girl in the yellow house and do no end of things withher. Dual personality! Lord, and in this stagnant pool! All right. Dual personality. Now she must get a jog about her husband and wakeup! Two men and one woman. Triangle, of course. Nothing new underGod's heaven. It's the handling of the ragged old things. I can makerather a big story out of the ingredients at hand. "

Northrup felt that he was going to sleep; going to rise to therestored desire for work. No wonder he laughed and whistled--softly;he had overtaken himself!

Three days later a telegram came from Mrs. Northrup. 

"Go on, " it said simply. Mrs. Northrup knew when it was wisest to letgo. But this was not true of Kathryn Morris, the other woman mostclosely attached to Northrup's life. Kathryn never let go. When shelost interest in any one, or anything, she flung it, or him, from herwith no doubtful attitude of mind. Kathryn meant to marry Northrupsome day and he fully expected to marry her, though neither of themcould ever recall just when, or how, this understanding had beenarrived at. 

It was, to all appearances, a most fitting outcome to close familyinterests and friendships. It had just naturally happened up to thepoint when both would desire to bring it to a culmination. The nextstep, naturally, must be taken by Kathryn for, when Northrup hadventured to suggest, during his convalescence, a definite date fortheir wedding, Kathryn had, with great show of tenderness, pushed thematter aside. 

The fact was, marriage to Kathryn was not a terminal, but a waystation where one was obliged to change for another stretch on apleasant and unhampered journey, and she had no intention of marryinga possible invalid or, perhaps, a dying man. 

So while Northrup struggled out of his long and serious illness, Kathryn played her little game under cover. Some women, rather dulland stupid ones, can do this admirably if they are young enough andlovely enough to carry it through, and Kathryn was both. She had alsothat peculiar asset of looking divinely intuitive and sweet during hersilences, and it would have taken a keen reader of human nature todecide whether Kathryn Morris's silences brooded over a rare storeroomof treasure or over a haunted and empty chamber. 

Without any one being aware of the reasons for his reappearance, acertain Alexander Arnold materialized while Northrup had been at hisworst. Sandy Arnold had figured rather vehemently in the yearfollowing Kathryn's "coming out, " but had faded away when Northrupbegan to show signs of becoming famous. 

Arnold was a man who made money and lost it in a breath-takingfashion, but gradually he was steadying himself and was more often upthan down--he was decidedly up at the time of Northrup's darkest hour;he was still refusing to disappear when Northrup emerged from theshadows and showed signs of persisting. This was disconcerting. Kathryn faced a situation, and situations were never thrilling to her:she lacked the sporting spirit; she always played safe or endeavouredto. Sandy was still in evidence when Northrup disappeared from thescene. 

Mrs. Northrup read Brace's letter to Kathryn, and something in thegirl rose in alarm. This ignoring of her, for whatever reason, wasmost disturbing. Brace should have taken her, if not his mother, intohis confidence. Instead he had "cut and run"--that was the way Kathryn_thought_ of it. Aloud she said, with that ravishing look of hers:

"How very Brace-like! Getting material and colour I suppose he callsit. I wish"--this with a tender, yearning smile--"I wish, for yoursake and mine, dear, that his genius ran in another direction, stocksor banking--anything with an office. It is so worrying, this trick ofhis of hunting plots. "

"I only hope that he can write again, " Mrs. Northrup returned, pattingthe letter on her knee. Once she had wanted to write, but she had hadher son instead. In her day women did not have professions _and_ sons. They chose. Well, she had chosen, and paid the price. Her husband hadcost her much; her son was her recompense. He was her interpreter, also. 

"Where do you think he'll go?" Kathryn asked. 

"He'll tell us when he comes home. " There was something cryptic aboutHelen Northrup when she was seeking to help her son. Kathryn once morebridled. She was direct herself, very direct, but her advances weremade under a barrage fire. 

Her next step was to go to Doctor Manly. She chose his office hour, waited her turn, and then pleaded wakefulness and headache as herexcuse for the call. 

Manly hated wakefulness and headaches. You couldn't put them under theX-ray; you couldn't operate on them; you had to deal with them byfaith. Kathryn was not lacking in imagination and she gave a fairlyaccurate description of long, black hours and consequent pain--"here. "She touched the base of her brain. She vaguely recalled that the nervecentres were in that locality. 

Manly was impressed and while he was off on that scent, somehowNorthrup got into the conversation. 

"I cannot help worrying about Brace, more for his mother's sake thanhis. " Kathryn looked very sweet and womanly, "He has been so ill andthe letter his mother has just received _is_ disturbing. "

Here Kathryn quoted it and Manly grinned. 

"That's all right, " he said, shaking a bottle of pills. "It does ahuman creature no end of good to run away at times. I often wonder whymore of us don't do it and come back keener and better. "

"Some of us have duties. " Kathryn looked noble and self-sacrificing. 

"Some of us would perform them a darned sight better if we took thehalf holiday now and then that the soul, or whatever you call it, craves. Now Northrup ought to look to his job--it _is_ a job in hiscase. You wouldn't expect a travelling salesman to hang around hisshop all the time, would you?"

Kathryn had never had any experience with travelling salesmen--shewasn't clear as to their mission in life. So she said doubtfully:

"I suppose not. "

"Certainly not! An office man is one thing; a professional man, another; and these wandering Johnnies, like Northrup, still anotherbreed. He's been starving his scent--that's what I told him. Too much_woman_ in his--and I don't mean to hurt you, Kathryn, but you oughtto get it into your system that marrying a man like Northrup is likemarrying a doctor or minister; you've got to have a lot of faith oryou're going to break your man. "

Kathryn's eyes contracted, then she laughed. 

"How charming you are, Doctor Manly, when you're making talk. Arethose pills bitter?" Kathryn reached out for them. "Not that I mind, but I hate to be taken by surprise. "

"They're as bitter as--well, they're quinine. You need toning up. "

"You think I need a change?" The tone was pensive. 

"Change?" Manly had a sense of humour. "Well, yes, I do. Go to bedearly. Cut out rich food; you'll be fat at forty if you don't, MissKathryn. Take up some good physical work, not exercises. Really, itwould be a great thing for you if you discharged one of your maids. "

"Which one, Doctor Manly?"

"The one who is on her feet most. "

And so, while Northrup settled down in King's Forest, and his motherfancied him travelling far, Kathryn set her pretty lips close andjotted down the address of Helen Northrup's letter in a small redbook. 

CHAPTER III

Mary-Clare stood in the doorway of the little yellow house. Hermud-stained clothes gave evidence that the recent storm had not kepther indoors--she was really in a very messy, caked state--but it wasalways good to breathe the air after a big storm; it was so alive andthrilling, and she had put off a change of dress while she debated asecond trip. There was a stretching-out look on Mary-Clare's face andher eyes were turned to a little trail leading into the hilly woodsacross the highway. 

Noreen came to the door and stood close to her mother. Noreen was onlysix, but at times she looked ageless. When the child abandoned herselfto pure enjoyment, she talked baby talk and--played. But usually shewas on guard, in a fierce kind of blind adoration for her mother. Justwhat the child feared no one could tell, but there was a constantappearance of alertness in her attitude even in her happiest moments. 

"I guess you want the woods, Motherly?" The small up-turned face madethe young mother's heart beat quicker; the tie was strong betweenthem. 

"I do, Noreen. It has been ten whole days since I had them. "

"Well, Motherly, why don't you go?"

"And leave my baby alone?"

"I'll get Jan-an to come!"

"Oh! you blessed!" Mary-Clare bent and kissed the worshipping face. "Itell you, Sweetheart. Mother will take a bite of lunch and go up thetrail, if you will go to Jan-an. If you cannot find her, then come upthe trail to Motherly--how will that do?"

"Yes, " Noreen sweetly acquiesced. "I'll come to the--the----" shewaited for the word. 

"Yawning Gap, " suggested the mother, reverting to a dearly lovedromance. 

"Yes. I'll come to the Yawning Gap and I'll give the call. "

"And I'll call back: _Oh! wow!--Oh! wo!_" The musical voice rose likea flute and Noreen danced about. 

"And I'll answer: _wo wow!--oh!_" The piping tones were alsoflute-like, an echo of the mother's. 

"And then, down will fall the drawbridge with a mighty clatter. "Mary-Clare looked majestic even in her muddy trousers as she portrayedthe action. "And over the Gap will come the Princess Light-of-my-Heartwith her message. "

"Ah! yes, Motherly. It will be such fun. But if Jan-an can come hereto stay, then what?" the voice faltered. 

"Why, Light-of-my-Heart, I will return strong and hungry, and Jan-anand my Princess and I will sit by the fire to-night and roastchestnuts and apples and there will be such a story as never wasbefore. "

"Both ways are beautiful ways, Motherly. I don't know which isbestest. "

It was always so with Mary-Clare and Noreen, all ways were alluring;but the child had deep intuitions, and so she set her face at onceaway from the little yellow house and the mother in the doorway, andstarted on her quest of Jan-an. 

When the child had passed from sight Mary-Clare packed a bit ofluncheon in a basket and ran lightly across the road. She looked back, making sure that no one was watching her movements, then she plungedinto the woods, her head lowered, and her heart throbbing high. 

The trail was not an easy one--Mary-Clare had seen to that!--and as noone but Noreen and herself ever trod it, it was hardly discernible tothe uninitiated. Up and up the path led until it ended at a rough, crude cabin almost hidden by a tangle of vines. 

Looking back over the years of her married life, Mary-Clare oftenwondered how she could have endured them but for the vision andstrength she received in her "Place, " as she whimsically calledit--getting her idea from a Bible verse. 

Among the many things that old Doctor Rivers had given Mary-Clare wasa knowledge and love of the Bible. He had offered the book to her asliterature and early in life she had responded to the appeal. Theverse that had inspired her to restore a deserted cabin to a thing ofbeauty and eventually a kind of sanctuary, was this:

 And the woman fled into the wilderness where she hath a place prepared of God that they should feed her there. 

The words, roughly carved, were traced on the east wall of the cabinand under a picture of Father Damien. 

The furniture of the shack was made by Mary-Clare's own hands. A longtable, some uneven shelves for books she most loved, a chair or twoand a low couch over which was thrown a gay-patched quilt. Once thework of love was completed, Nature reached forth with offerings oflovely vines and mountain laurel and screened the place from anychance passer-by. 

A hundred feet below the cabin was a little stream. That marked thelimit of even Noreen's territory unless, after due ceremony, she waspermitted to advance as far as the cabin door. The pretty game wasevolved to please the child and secure for the mother a privacy shemight not have got in any other way. 

As Mary-Clare reached the "Place" this autumn day, she was a bitbreathless and stepped lightly as one does who approaches a shrine;she went inside and, kneeling by the cracked but dustless hearth, lighted a fire; then she took a seat by the rough table, clasped herhands upon it and lifted her eyes to the words upon the oppositewall. 

Sitting so, a startling change came over the young face. It was like aletting down of strong defences. The smile fled, the head bowed, and apitiful look of appeal settled from brow to trembling lips. 

Mary-Clare had come to a sharp turn on her road and, as yet, shecould not see her way! She had drifted--she could, with Larryaway--but now he was coming home!

She had tried, God knew, for three long months to be sure. She _must_be sure, she was like that; sure that she _felt_ her way to be the_right_ way; so sure that, should she find it later the wrong way, shecould retrace her steps without remorse. It was the believing, at thestart, that she was doing right, that mattered. 

Sitting in the quiet room with the autumn sunlight coming through theclustering vines at window and door and falling upon her in dancingpatterns, the woman waited for guidance. The room became a place ofmemory and vision. 

Help would come, she still had the faith, but it must come at once forher husband might at any hour return from one of his mysteriousbusiness trips and there must be a decision reached before she methim. She could not hope to make him understand her nor sympathize withher; he and she, beyond the most ordinary themes, spoke differentlanguages. She had learned that. 

She must take her stand alone; hold it alone; but the stand must seemto her right and then she could go on. Like the flickering sunbeamsplaying over her, the past came touching her memory with light andshade, unconsciously preparing her for her decision. She was notthinking, but thought was being formed. 

The waves of memory swept Mary-Clare from her moorings. She was nolonger the harassed woman facing her problem in the clear light ofconviction; but the child, whose mistaken ideals of love and loyaltyhad betrayed her so cruelly. Why had she who early had been taught byDoctor Rivers to "use her woman brain, " gone so utterly astray?

Why had she married Larry when she never loved him; felt him to be astranger, simply because he had interpreted the words of a dying manfor her?

In the light of realization the errors of life become our most deadlyaccusers. We dare not make others pay for the folly that we shouldnever have perpetrated. Mary-Clare, the woman, had paid and paid, until now she faced bankruptcy; she was prepared still to do her partas far as in her lay--but she must retrace her steps, be sure and thengo on as best she could. 

Always, in those old childish days, there had been the grim spectre ofLarry's mother. Her name was never mentioned but to the imaginative, sensitive Mary-Clare, she became, for that very reason, a clearlydefined and potent influence. She was responsible for the doctor'slonely life in King's Forest; for Larry's long absences from home; forthe lines that grew between the old doctor's eyes when he laid downthe few simple laws of conduct that formed the iron code of life:

_Never lie. Never break a promise. Never take advantage for selfishgain. Think things out with your woman brain, and never count the costif you know it is right. _

Larry's mother, so the child believed, had not kept the code--therefore, Mary-Clare must the more strictly adhere to it and become what theother had not! And how desperately she had struggled to reach herideal. In the conflict, only her sunny joyous nature had saved her fromwreck. Naturally direct and loyal, much of what might have occurredwas prevented. Passionate love and devout belief in the old doctoreliminated other dangers. 

It was well and right to use your "woman brain, " but when in the endyou always came to the conclusion that the doctor's way was your way, life was simplified. If one could not fully understand, then all themore reason for relying upon a good guide, a tested friend; but aboveall other considerations, once the foundation was secure was this: shemust make up to her adored doctor and Larry for what that unmentioned, mysterious woman had denied them. 

It had all seemed so simple, when one did not know!

That was it. Breathing hard, Mary-Clare came back to the present. Shecould not know until she had lived, and being married did not stoplife. And now, Mary-Clare could consider, as if apart from herself, from the girl who had married Larry because he had caught the dyingrequest of the old doctor. She had wanted to do right at that lasttragic moment. She had done it with the false understanding ofreality and found out the truth--by living. It had seemed to her, inher ignorance, the only way to relieve the suffering of the dying: tohelp Larry who was deprived of everything. 

Mary-Clare must not desert, as the unmentioned woman had. 

But life, living--how they had torn the blindness from her! How shehad paid and paid until that awful awakening after the birth and deathof her last child, three months before! She had tried then to makeLarry understand before he went away, but she could not! Larry alwaysascribed her moods, as he called them, to her "just going to have achild, " or "getting over having one. "

He had gone away tolerant, but with a warning: "A man isn't going tostand too much!"

These words had been a challenge. There could be no more compromising. Pay-day had come for her and Larry. 

But the letters!

At this thought Mary-Clare sat up rigidly. A squirrel, that had pausedat her quiet feet, darted affrightedly across the cabin floor. 

The letters! The letters in the box hid on the shelf of the closet inthe upper chamber. Always those letters had driven her back from thelight which experience shed upon her to the darkness of ignorance. 

Larry had given the letters to her at the time when she questioned, after the doctor's death, Larry's right to hold her to her marriagevows. How frightened and full of despair she had been. She had feltthat perhaps Larry had not understood. Why had the doctor never toldher of his desire for her and Larry to marry? Then it was that Larryhad gone away to bring proof. He had never meant to show it to her, but he must clear himself at the critical moment. 

And so he brought the letters. Mary-Clare knew every word of them. They were burned into her soul: they had been the guides on the hardroad she had travelled. The doctor had always wanted her and Larry tomarry; believed that they would. But she must be left free; no wordmust be spoken until she was old enough to choose. To prove his faithand love in his adopted child, Rivers had, so the letters to Larryrevealed, left his all to her. In case she could not marry Larry, heconfided in her justice to share with him. 

The last dark hour had broken the old doctor's self-control--he hadvoiced what heretofore he had kept secret. The letters stood as silentproof of this. And then the old, rigid code asserted its influence. Apromise must be kept!

And so the payment began, but it was not, had never been, the realMary-Clare who had paid. Something had retreated during the bleakyears, that which remained fulfilled the daily tasks; kept its owncouncil, laughed at length, and knew a great joy in the baby Noreen, seemed a proof that God was still with her while she held to whatappeared to be right. 

And then the last child came, looked at her with its deep accusingeyes and died!

In that hour, or so it seemed, the real Mary-Clare returned anddemanded recognition. There was to be no more compromise; no morecalling things by false names and striving to believe them real. Therewas but one safe road: truth. 

And Larry was coming home. He had not understood when he went away: hewould not understand now. Still, truth must be faced. 

The letters!

Mary-Clare now leaned on the table, her eyes fixed upon the wallopposite. The roughly carved words caught and held her attention. Gradually it came to her, vaguely, flickeringly, like a will-o'-the-wispdarting through a murky night, that if life meant anything it meant afaith in what was true. She must not demand more than that; a senseof truth. 

As a little child may look across the familiar environment of itsnursery and contemplate its first unaided step, so Mary-Clareconsidered her small world: her unthinking world of King's Forest, andprepared to take her lonely course. The place in which she had beenborn and bred: the love and friends that had held her close suddenlybecame strange to her. What was to befall her, once she let go theconventions that upheld her?

Well, that was not for her to ask. There was the letting go and thenthe first unaided step. Nothing must hold her back--not even thoseletters that had sustained her! In recognizing her big problem in hersmall and crude world, Mary-Clare had no thought of casting aside herobligation or duties--her distress was founded upon a fear that thoseblessed, sacred duties would have none of her because she had not thatwith which to buy favour. 

There was Noreen--she was Larry's, too. Through the years Mary-Clarehad remembered that almost fiercely as she combated the child'saversion to her father. Suddenly, as small things do occur at strainedmoments, hurting like a cruel blow, a scene at the time when Noreenwas but four years old, rose vividly before her. Larry, sensing thebaby's hatred, had tried to force an outward show of obedience andaffection. He had commanded Noreen to come and kiss him. 

Like a bird under the spell of a serpent, Noreen had stood affrightedand silent. The command was repeated, laughingly, jeeringly, but underit Mary-Clare had recognized that ring of brutality that occasionallymarked Larry's easy-going tones. Then Noreen had advanced step bystep, her eyes wide and alert. 

"Kiss me!"

"No!"

The words had been explosive. Then Larry had caught the child roughly, and Noreen had struck him!

Maddened and keen to the fact that he had been brought to bay, Larryhad struck back, and for days the mark of his hand had lain across thedelicate cheek. After that, when their wills clashed, Noreen, her eyesfull of fear and hate, would raise her hand to her cheek--weighing thecost of rebellion. That gesture had become a driving force inMary-Clare's life. She must overcome that which lay like a hideousmenace between Larry and Noreen! She was accountable for it; out ofher loveless existence Noreen had birth--she was a living evidence ofthe wrong done. 

Looking back now, Mary-Clare realized that on the day when Larrystruck Noreen he had struck the scales from her eyes. From that hourshe had bunglingly, gropingly, felt her way along. The only fact thatupheld her now was that she knew she must take her first lonely step, even if all her little unknowing, unthinking world dropped from her. 

Again the squirrel darted across the floor and Mary-Clare looked afterit lingeringly. Even the little wild thing was company for her in herhard hour. Then she looked up at the face of Father Damien. It was buta face--the meaning of what had gone into its making Mary-Clare couldnot understand--but it brought comfort and encouragement. 

The reaction had set in. Worn-out nerves became non-resistant; theyceased to ache. Then it was that Noreen's shrill voice broke thecalm:

"Motherly, Motherly, he's come: he's come home!"

Mary-Clare rose stiffly; her hands were spread wide as if to balanceher on that dangerous, adventurous trail that lay between her past andthe hidden future. There lay the trail: within her soul was a sense oftruth and she had strength and courage for the first step. That wasall. 

"I'm coming, Noreen. I'm coming!" And Mary-Clare staggered on. 

CHAPTER IV

Mary-Clare met Noreen at the brook, smiling and calm. The child wastrembling and pale, but the touch of her mother's hand reassured her. It was like waking from a painful dream and finding everything safeand the dream gone. 

"I was just coming down the path with Jan-an, Motherly, when I saw himgoing in the house. "

"Daddy, dear?"

"Yes, Motherly, Daddy. He left a bag in the house; looked all aroundand then came out. I was 'fraid he was coming to you, so I ran andran, but Jan-an said she'd stay and fix him if he did. "

"Noreen!" The tone was stern and commanding. 

"Well, Motherly, Jan-an said that, but maybe she was just funny. "

"Of course. Just funny. We must always remember, Noreen, that poorJan-an is just funny. "

"Yes, Motherly. "

Things were reduced to normal by the time the little yellow house wasreached. Jan-an was there, crouched by the fireplace, upon which shehad kindled a welcoming fire after making sure Larry had not gone upthe secret trail. 

Rivers was not in evidence, though a weather-stained bag, flunghastily on the floor, was proof of his hurried call. He did not appearall day. As a matter of fact, he was at the mines. Failing to find hiswife, he had availed himself of the opportunity of announcing hispresence to his good friend Maclin, and getting from him much localgossip, and what approval Maclin vouchsafed. 

All day, with Jan-an's assistance, Mary-Clare prepared for thecreature comforts of her husband; while Noreen made nervous trips todoor and window. At night Jan-an departed--she seemed glad to go away, but not sure that she ought to go; Mary-Clare laughed her into goodhumour. 

"I jes don't like the feelings I have, " the girl reiterated; "I'mcreepy. "

Mary-Clare packed a bag of food for her and patted her shoulder. 

"Come to-morrow, " she said, and then, after a moment's hesitation, shekissed the yearning, vacant face. "You're going to the Point, Jan-an?"she asked, and the girl nodded. 

Noreen, too, had to be petted into a calmer state--her old aversion toher father sprang into renewed life with each return after an absence. In a few days the child would grow accustomed to his presence andaccept him with indifference, at least, but there was always thisstruggle. 

Mary-Clare herself wondered where Larry was; why he delayed, oncehaving come back to the Forest; but she kept to her tasks ofpreparation and reassuring Noreen, and so the day passed. 

At eight o'clock, having eaten supper and undressed the child, she satin the deep wooden rocker with Noreen in her arms. There was alwaysone story that had power to claim attention when all others failed, and Mary-Clare resorted to it now. Swaying back and forth she told thestory of the haunt-wind. 

"It was a wonderful wind, Noreen, quite magical. It came from betweenthe south and the east--a wild little wind that ran away and didthings on its own account; but it was a good little wind for all thatfoolish people said about it. It took hold of the bell rope in thebelfry, and swung out and out; it swung far, and then it dropped andfluttered about quite dizzily. "

"Touching Jan-an?" Noreen suggested sleepily. 

"Jan-an, of course. Making her beautiful and laughing. Waking her fromher sad dream, poor Jan-an, and giving her strength to do reallysplendid things. "

"I love the wild wind!" Noreen pressed closer. "I'm not afraid of it. And it found Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter?"

"To be sure. It made Aunt Polly seem as grand and big as she reallyis--only blind folks cannot see--and it made all the blind folks _seeher_ for a minute. And it made Uncle Peter--no; it left Uncle Peter ashe is!"

"I like that"--drowsily--"and it made us see the man that went to theinn?" Noreen lifted her head, suddenly alert. 

"What made you think of him, Noreen?" Mary-Clare stopped swaying toand fro. 

"I don't know, Motherly. Only it was funny how he just came and thenthe haunt-wind came and Jan-an says she thinks he _isn't_. Really weonly think we see him. "

"Well, perhaps that's true, childie. He's something good, I hope. Nowshut your eyes like a dearie, and Mother will rock and sing. "

Mary-Clare fixed her eyes on her child's face, but she was seeinganother. The face of a man whose glance had held hers for a strangemoment. She had been conscious, since, of this man's presence; hisname was familiar--she could not forget him, though there was noreason for her to remember him except that he was new; a somethingdifferent in her dull days. 

But Noreen, eyes obediently closed, was pleading in the strange, foolish jargon of her rare moments of relaxation:

"You lit and lock, Motherly, and I'll luck my lum, just for to-night, and lall aleep. "

"All right, beloved; you may, just for to-night, suck the littlethumb, and fall asleep while Mother rocks. "

After a few moments more Noreen was asleep and Mary-Clare carried herto an inner room and put her on her bed. She paused to look at thesmall sleeping face; she noted the baby outlines that always were sostrongly marked when Noreen was unconscious; it hurt the mother tothink how they hardened when the child awakened. The realization ofthis struck Mary-Clare anew and reinforced her to her purpose, for sheknew her hour was at hand. 

A week before she had dismantled the room in which she now stood. Ithad once been Doctor Rivers's chamber; later it had been hers--andLarry's. The old furniture was now in the large upper room, only barenecessities were left here. 

Mary-Clare looked about and her face lost its smile; her headlowered--it was not easy, the task she had set for herself, and afterLarry's visit to the mines it would be harder. She had hoped to seeLarry first, for Maclin had a subtle power over him. Without everreferring to her, and she was sure he did not in an intimate sense, healways put Larry in an antagonistic frame of mind toward her. Well, itwas too late now to avert Maclin's influence--she must do the best shecould. She went back to the fire and sat down and waited. 

It was after ten o'clock when Larry came noisily in. Rivers took hiscolour from his associates and their attitude toward him. He was a bithilarious now, for Maclin had been glad to see him; had approved ofthe results of his mission--though as for that Larry had had little todo, for he had only delivered, to certain men, some private papers andhad received others in return; had been conscious that non-essentialshad been talked over with him, but as that was part of the business ofbig inventions, he did not resent it. Maclin had paid him better thanhe had expected to be paid, shared a good dinner with him and a bottleof wine, and now Rivers felt important and aggressive. Wine's firsteffect upon him was to make him genial. 

He had meant to resent Mary-Clare's absence on his arrival, but he hadforgotten all about that. He meant now to be very generous with herand let bygones be bygones--he had long since forgotten the wordsspoken just before he left for his trip. Words due, of course, toMary-Clare just having had a baby. Almost Larry had forgotten that thebaby had been born and had died. 

He strode across the room. He was tall, lithe, and good-looking, buthis face betokened weakness. All the features that had promisedstrength and power seemed, somehow, to have missed fulfilment. 

Mary-Clare tried to respond; tried to do her full part--it would allhelp so much, if she only could. But this mood of Larry's was fraughtwith danger--did she not know? Success did not make him understandingand considerate; it made him boyishly dominant and demanding. 

"Well, old girl"--Rivers had slammed the door after him--"sitting upfor me, eh? Sorry; but when I didn't find you here, I had to get overand see Maclin. Devilish important, big pull I've made this time. We'll have a spree--go to the city, if you like--have a real bat. "

Mary-Clare did not have time to move or speak; Larry was crushing heragainst him and kissing her face--not as a man kisses a woman heloves, but as he might kiss any woman. The silence and rigidity ofMary-Clare presently made themselves felt. Larry pushed her awayalmost angrily. 

"Mad, eh?" he asked with a suggestion of triumph in his voice. "Actingup because I ran off to Maclin? Well, I had to see him. I tried to gethome sooner, but you know how Maclin is when he gets talking. "

How long Larry would have kept on it would have been hard to tell, buthe suddenly looked full at Mary-Clare and--stopped!

The expression on the face confronting his was puzzling: it lookedamused, not angry. Now there is one thing a man of Larry's type cannotbear with equanimity and that is to have his high moments dashed. Hesaw that he was not impressing Mary-Clare; he saw that he wasmistaking her attitude of mind concerning his treatment of her--inshort, she did not care!

"What are you laughing at?" he asked. 

"I'm not laughing, Larry. "

"What are you smiling at?"

"My smile is my own, Larry; when I laugh it's different. "

"Trying to be smart, eh? I should think when your husband's been awaymonths and has just got back, you'd meet him with something besides agrin. "

There was some justice in this and Mary-Clare said slowly: "I'm sorry, Larry. I really was only thinking. "

Now that she was face to face with her big moment, Mary-Clare realizedanew how difficult her task was. Often, in the past, thinking ofLarry when he was not with her, it had seemed possible to reason withhim; to bring truth to him and implore his help. Always she hadstriven to cling to her image of Larry, but never to the real man. Theman she had constructed with Larry off the scene was quite anothercreature from Larry in the flesh. This knowledge was humiliating nowin the blazing light of reality grimly faced and it taxed all ofMary-Clare's courage. She was smiling sadly, smiling at her owninability in the past to deal with facts. 

Larry was brought to bay. He was disappointed, angry, and outraged. Hewas not a man to reflect upon causes; results, and very present ones, were all that concerned him. But he did, now, hark back to the scenesoon after the birth and death of the last child. Such states of minddidn't last for ever, and there was no baby coming at the moment. Hecould not make things out. 

"See here, " he said rather gropingly, "you are not holding a grouch, are you?"

"No, Larry. "

"What then?"

For a moment Mary-Clare shrank. She weakly wanted to put off the bigmoment; dared not face it. 

"It's late, Larry. You are tired. " She got that far when sheaffrightedly remembered the bedroom upstairs and paused. She hadarranged it for Larry--there must be an explanation of that. 

"Late be hanged!" Larry stretched his legs out and plunged his handsin his pockets. "I'm going to get at the bottom of this to-night. Youunderstand?"

"All right, Larry. " Mary-Clare sank back in her chair--she had fallenon her adventurous way; she had no words with which to convey herburning thoughts. Already she had got so far from the man who hadfilled such a false position in her life that he seemed a stranger. Totell him that she did not love him, had never loved him, was all butimpossible. Of course he could not be expected to comprehend. Thesituation became terrifying. 

"You've never been the same since the last baby came. " Larry wasspeaking in an injured, harsh tone. "I've put up with a good deal, Mary-Clare; not many men would be so patient. The trouble with you, mygirl, is this, you get your ideas from books. That mightn't matter ifyou had horse sense and knew when to slam the covers on the rot. Butyou try to live 'em and then the devil is to pay. Dad spoiled you. Helet you run away with yourself. But the time's come----"

The long speech in the face of Mary-Clare's wondering, amazed eyes, brought Larry to a panting pause. 

"What you got a husband for, anyway, that's what I am asking you?"

Mary-Clare's hard-won philosophy of life stood her in poor stead now. She felt an insane desire to give way and laugh. It was a maddeningthing to contemplate, but she seemed to see things so cruelly real andLarry seemed shouting to her from a distance that she could neverretrace. For a moment he seemed to be physically out of sight--sheonly heard his words. 

"By God! Mary-Clare, what's up? Have you counted the cost of carryingon as you are doing? What am I up against?"

"Yes, Larry, I've counted the cost to me and Noreen and you. I'mafraid this is what we are all up against. "

"Well, what's the sum total?" Larry leaned back more comfortably; hefelt that Mary-Clare, once she began to talk, would say a good deal. She would talk like one of her books. He need not pay much heed andwhen she got out of breath he'd round her up. His interview withMaclin had not been all business; the gossip, interjected, was takingugly and definite form now. Maclin had mentioned the man at the inn. Quite incidentally, of course, but repeatedly. 

"You see, Larry, I've got to tell you how it is, in my own way, "Mary-Clare was speaking. "I know my way makes you angry, but please bepatient, for if I tried any other way it would hurt more. "

"Fire away!" Larry nobly suppressed a yawn. Had Mary-Clare saidsimply, "I don't love you any more, " Larry would have got up from theblow and been able to handle the matter, but she proceeded after afashion that utterly confused him and, instead of clearing thesituation, managed to create a most unlooked-for result. 

"It's like this, Larry: I suppose life is a muddle for everyone and weall do have to learn as we go on--nothing can keep us from that, noteven marriage, can it?"

No reply came to this. 

"It's like light coming in spots, and then those spots can never bereally dark again although all the rest may be. You think of thosespots as bright and sure when all else is--is lost. That is the way ithas been with me. "

"Gee!" Larry shrugged his shoulders. 

"Larry, you _must_ try to understand!" Mary-Clare was growingdesperate. 

"Then, try to talk American. "

"I am, Larry. _My_ American. That's the trouble--there is more than_one_ kind, you know. Larry, it was all wrong, my marrying you evenfor dear Dad's sake. If he had been well and we could have talked itover, he would have understood. I should have understood for him thatlast night. Even the letters should not have mattered, they must notmatter now!"

This, at least, was comprehensible. 

"Well, you _did_ marry me, didn't you?" Larry flung out. "You're mywife, aren't you?" Correcting mistakes was not in Larry's plan oflife. 

"I--why, yes, I am, Larry, but a wife means more than one thing, doesn't it?" This came hopelessly. 

"Not to me. What's your idea?" Larry was relieved at having theconversation run along lines that he could handle with some degree ofcommon sense. 

"Well, Larry, marriage means a good many things to me. It means beingkind and making a good home--a real home, not just a place to come to. It means standing by each other, even if you can't have everything!"

Just for one moment Larry was inclined to end this shilly-shallying bybrute determination. He was that type of man. What did not comewithin the zone of his own experience, did not exist for him except asobstacles to brush aside. 

It was a damned bad time, he thought, for Mary-Clare to act up herbook stuff. A man, home after a three months' absence, tired and wornout, could not be expected, at close upon midnight, to enjoy thisoutrageous nonsense that had been sprung upon him. 

He must put an end to it at once. He discarded the cave method. Ofcourse that impulse was purely primitive. It might simplify the wholesituation but he discarded it. Mary-Clare's outbursts were likeNoreen's "dressing up"--and bore about the same relation in Larry'smind. 

"See here, " he said suddenly, fixing his eyes on Mary-Clare--whenLarry asserted himself he always glared--"just what in thunder do youmean?"

The simplicity of the question demanded a crude reply. 

"I'm not going to have any more children. " Out of the maze ofcomplicated ideals and gropings this question and answer emerged, devastating everything in their path. They meant one, and only one, thing to Larry Rivers. 

There were some things that could illume his dark stretches and levelMary-Clare's vague reachings to a common level. Both Larry andMary-Clare were conscious now of being face to face with a grave humanexperience. They stood revealed, man and woman. The big significantthings in life are startlingly simple. 

The man attacked the grim spectre with conventional and brutalweapons; the woman backed away with a dogged look growing in hereyes. 

"Oh! you aren't, eh?" Larry spoke slowly. "You've decided, have you?"

"I know what children mean to you, Larry; I know what you meanby--love--yes: I've decided!"

"You wedged your way into my father's good graces and crowded me out;you had enough decency, when you knew his wishes, to carry them out aslong as you cared to, and now you're going to end the job in your ownway, eh?

"Name the one particular way in which you're not going to break yourvows, " Larry asked, and sneered. "What's your nice little plan?" Hegot up and walked about. "I suppose you have cut and dried some littlecompromise. "

"Oh! Larry, I wish you could be a little kind; a little understanding. "

"Wish I could think as you think; that's what you mean. Well, by God, I'm a man and your husband and I'm going to stand on my rights. Youcan't make a silly ass of me as you did of my father. Fathers andhusbands are a shade different. Come, now, out with your plan. "

"I will not have any more children! I'll do everything I can, Larry;make the home a real home. Noreen and I will love you. We'll try tofind some things we all want to do together; you and I can sort ofplan for Noreen and there are all kinds of things to do around theForest, Larry. Really, you and I ought to--ought to carry out yourfather's work. We could! There are other things in marriage, Larry, but just--the one. " Breathlessly Mary-Clare came to a pause, butLarry's amused look drove her on. "I'm not the kind of a woman, Larry, that can live a lie!"

A tone of horror shook Mary-Clare's voice; she choked and Larry camecloser, his lips were smiling. 

"What in thunder!" he muttered. Then: "You plan to have us live onhere in this house; you and I, a man and woman--and----!" Larrystopped short, then laughed. "A hell of a home that would be, allright!"

Mary-Clare gazed dully at him. 

"Well, then, " she whispered, and her lips grew deadly white, "I do notknow what to do. "

"Do? You'll forget it!" thundered Larry. "And pretty damned quick, too!"

But Mary-Clare did not answer. There was nothing more to say. She wasthinking of the birth-night and death-night of her last child. 

On and on the burning thoughts rushed in Mary-Clare's brain while shesat near Larry without seeing him. As surely as if death had takenhim, he, the husband, the father of Noreen, had gone from her life. Itdid not seem now as if anything she had said, or done, had hadanything to do with it. It was like an accident that had overtakenthem, killing Larry and leaving her to readjust her life alone. 

"Why don't you answer?" Larry laid a hand upon Mary-Clare's shoulder. "Getting sleepy? Come on, then, we'll have this out to-morrow. " Helooked toward the door behind which stood Noreen's cot and that otherone beside it. 

"I've fixed the room upstairs for you, Larry. "

The simple statement had power to accomplish all that was left to bedone. There was a finality about it, and the look on Mary-Clare'sface, that convinced Larry he had come to the point of conquest ordefeat. 

"The devil you have!" was what he said to gain time. 

For a moment he again contemplated force--the primitive male alwayshesitates to compromise where his codes are threatened. There was adangerous gleam in his eyes; a ferocious curl of his lips--it would besuch a simple matter and it would end for ever the nonsense that hecould not tolerate. 

Mary-Clare leaned back in her chair. She was so absolutely unafraidthat she quelled Larry's brute instinct and aroused in him a dread ofthe unknown. What would Mary-Clare do in the last struggle? Larry wasnot prepared to take what he recognized as a desperate chance. Thefamiliar and obvious were deep-rooted in his nature--if, in the end, he lost with this calm, cool woman whom he could not frighten, wherecould he turn for certain things to which his weakness--or was it hisstrength--clung?

A place to come to; someone peculiarly his own; his without effort tobe worthy of. Larry resorted to new tactics with Mary-Clare at thiscritical moment. The smile faded from his sneering lips; he leanedforward and the manner that made him valuable to Maclin fell upon himlike a disguise. So startling was the change, that Mary-Clare lookedat him in surprise. 

"Mary-Clare, you've got me guessing"--there was almost surrender inthe tone--"a woman like you doesn't take the stand you have withoutreason. I know that. Naturally, I was upset, I spoke too quick. Tellme now in your own way. I'll try to understand. "

Mary-Clare was taken off guard. Her desire and sore need rushed pastcaution and carried her to Larry. 

She, too, leaned forward, and her lovely eyes were shining. "Oh! Ihoped you would try, Larry, " she said. "I know I'm trying and putthings in a way that you resent, but I have a great, a true reason, ifI could only make you see it. "

"Now, you're talking sense, Mary-Clare, " Larry spoke boyishly. "Justover-tired, I guess you were; seeing things in the dark. Men know theworld better than women; that's why some things are _as_ they are. I'mnot going to press you, Mary-Clare, I'm going to try and help you. You_are_ my wife, aren't you?"

"Yes, oh! yes, Larry. "

"Well, I'm a man and you're a woman. "

"Yes, that's so, Larry. "

Step by step, ridiculous as it might seem, Mary-Clare meant, even now, to keep as close to Larry as she could. He misunderstood; he thoughthe was winning against her folly. 

"Marriage was meant for one thing between man and woman!"

This came out triumphantly. Then Mary-Clare threw back her head andspiritually retreated to her vantage of safety. 

"No, it wasn't, " she said, taking to her own hard-won traildesperately. "No, it wasn't! I cannot accept that Larry--why, I haveseen where such reasoning would lead. I saw the night our last babycame--and went. I'd grow old and broken--you'd hate me; there would bechildren--many of them, poor, sad little things--looking at me withdreadful eyes, accusing me. If marriage means only one thing--it meansthat to me and you, and no woman has the right to--to become likethat. "

"Wanting to defy the laws of God, eh?" Larry grew virtuous. "We allgrow old, don't we? Men work for women; women do their share. Childrenare natural, ain't they? What's the institution of marriage for, anyway?" And now Larry's mouth was again hardening. 

"Larry, oh! Larry, please don't make me laugh! If I should laugh therewould never be any hope of our getting together. "

For some reason this almost hysterical appeal roused the worst inLarry. The things Maclin had told him that day again took fire andspread where Maclin could never have dreamed of their spreading. Theliquor was losing its sustaining effect--it was leaving Larry toflounder in his weak will, and he abandoned his futile tactics. 

"Who's that man at the inn?" he asked. 

The suddenness of the question, its irrelevancy, made Mary-Clarestart. For a moment the words meant absolutely nothing to her andthen because she was bared, nervously, to every attack, sheflushed--recalling with absurd clearness Northrup's look and tone. 

"I don't know, " she said. 

"That's a lie. How long has he been here, snooping around?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, Larry. " This was not true, and Larrycaught the quiver in the tones. 

Again he got up and became the masterful male; the injured husband;the protector of his home. There were still tactics to be tested. 

"See here, Mary-Clare, I've caught on. You never cared for me. Youmarried me from what you called duty; your sense of decency held untilyour own comfort and pleasure got in between--then you were ready tofling me off like an old mit and term it by high-sounding names. Nowcomes along this stranger, from God knows where, looking about for thedevil knows what--and taking what lies about in order to pass thetime. I haven't lived in the world for nothing, Mary-Clare. Now laythis along with the other woman-thoughts you're so fond of. I'm goingupstairs, for I'm tired and all-fired disgusted, but remember, what Ican't hold, no other man is going to get, not even for a little timewhile he hangs about. Folks are going to see just what is going on, believe me! I'm going to leave all the doors and windows open. I'mgoing to give you your head, but I'll keep hold of the reins. "

And then, because it was all so hideously wrong and twisted andcomical, Mary-Clare laughed! She laughed noiselessly, until the tearsdimmed her eyes. Larry watched her uneasily. 

"Oh, Larry, " she managed her voice at last, "I never knew thatanything so dreadfully wrong could be made of nothing. You've createda terrible something, and I wonder if you know it?"

"That's enough!" Larry strode toward the stairway. "Your husband's nofool, my girl, and the cheap, little, old tricks are plain enough tohim. "

Mary-Clare watched her husband pass from view; heard him tramp heavilyin the room above. She sat by the dead fire and thought of him as shefirst knew him--knew him? Then her eyes widened. She had never knownhim; she had taken him as she had taken all that her doctor had leftto her, and she had failed; failed because she had not thought herwoman's thought until it was too late. 

After all her high aims and earnest endeavour to meet this criticalmoment in her life Mary-Clare acknowledged, as she sat by theash-strewn hearth, that it had degenerated into a cheap and almostcomic farce. To her narrow vision her problem seemed never to havebeen confronted before; her world of the Forest would have no sympathyfor it, or her; Larry had reduced it to the ugliest aspect, and by sodoing had turned her thoughts where they might never have turned andupon the stranger who might always have remained a stranger. 

Alone in the deadly quiet room, the girl of Mary-Clare passed fromsight and the woman was supreme; a little hard, in order to combat thefuture: quickened to a futile sense of injustice, but young enough, even at that moment, to demand of life something vital; somethingbetter than the cruel thing that might evolve unless she bore herselfcourageously. 

Unconsciously she was planning her course. She would go her way withher old smile, her old outward bearing. A promise was a promise--shewould never forget that, and as far as she could pay with that whichwas hers to give, she would pay, but outside of that she would not letlife cheat her. 

Bending toward the dead fire on the hearth, Mary-Clare made her silentcovenant. 

CHAPTER V

The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but hehad put those hours to good use. 

He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becomingpart of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more hewas becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest. 

"He's writing a book!" Aunt Polly confided to Peter. "But he doesn'twant anything said about it. "

"He needn't get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon onething's as good as another to tell _us_. I lay my last dollar, Polly, on this: he's after Maclin; not with him. I'm thinking the Forest willget a shake-up some day and I'm willing to bide my time. Writing abook! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Whydon't he take to knitting?"

Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might sethis conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but hewanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end. 

"Until further notice, " he wrote to Manly, "I'm here, and let it go atthat. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch withme. As for the rest, I've found myself, Manly. I'm getting acquainted, and working like the devil. "

Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked "Confidential, but unimportant. "

Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to"unimportant, " gave him two or three thoughts. 

"The writing bug has got him, root and branch. He's burrowed in hishole and wants the earth to tumble in over him. Talk about lettingsleeping dogs lie. Lord! they're nothing to the animals of Northrup'stype. And some darn fools"--Manly was thinking of Kathryn--"go nosingaround and yapping at the creatures' heels and feel hurt when theyturn and snap. "

And Northrup, in his quiet room at the inn, slept at night like atired boy and dreamed. Now when Northrup began to dream, he was alwayson the lookout. A few skirmishing, nonsensical dreams marked a stateof mind peculiarly associated with his best working mood. They caughtand held his attention; they were like signals of the real thing. TheReal Thing was a certain dream that, in every detail, was familiar toNorthrup and exact in its repetition. 

Northrup had not been long at the inn when the significant dreamcame. 

He was back in a big sunny room that he knew as well as his own in hismother's house. There he stood, like a glad, returned traveller, counting the pieces of furniture; deeply grateful that they were intheir places and carefully preserved. 

The minutest articles were noted. A vase of flowers; the curtainsswaying in the breeze; an elusive odour that often haunted Northrup'swaking hours. The room was now as it always had been. That beingassured, Northrup, still in deep sleep, turned to the corridor andexpectantly viewed the closed doors. But right here a new note wasinterjected. Previously, the corridor and doors were things he hadgazed upon, feeling as a stranger might; but now they were like theroom; quite his own. He had trod the passage; had looked into theempty rooms--they were empty but had held a suggestion of things aboutto occur. 

And then waking suddenly, Northrup understood--he had come to theplace of his dream. The Inn was the old setting. In a clairvoyantstate, he had been in this place before!

He went to the door of his room and glanced down the passage. All wasquiet. The dream made an immediate impression on Northrup. Not onlydid it arouse his power of creation, strengthen and illumine it; butit evolved a sense of hurry that inspired him without worrying him. Itwas like the frenzy that seizes an artist when he wants to get a bitof beauty on canvas in a certain light that may change in the nextminute. He felt that what he was about to do must be done rapidly andhe knew that he would have strength to meet the demand. 

He was quickened to every slight thing that came his way: faces, voices, colour. He realized the unrest that his very innocent presenceinspired. He wondered about it. What lay seething under the thickcrust of King's Forest that was bubbling to the surface? Was hiscoming the one thing needed to--to----

And then he thought of that figure of speech that Manly had used. Theblack lava flowing; oozing, silently. The whole world, in the big andin the little, was being awakened and aroused--it was that, not hispresence, that confused the Forest. 

The habits of the house amused and moved him sympathetically. LittleAunt Polly, it appeared, was Judge and Final Court of Justice tothe people. Through her he felt he must look for guidance andunderstanding. 

There were always two hours in the afternoons set aside for"hearings. " Perched on the edge of the couch, pillows to right andleft, eyeglasses aslant and knitting in hand, Aunt Polly was at thedisposal of her neighbours. They could make appointments for privateinterviews or air their grievances before others, as the spirit urgedthem. Awful verdicts, clean-cut and simple, were arrived at; advice, grim and far-reaching, was generously given, but woe to the liar orsniveller. 

A curious sort of understanding grew up between Northrup and thelittle woman concerning these conclaves. Polly sensed his interest inall that went on and partly comprehended the real reason for it. Shehad been strangely impressed by the knowledge that her guest was awriter-man and therefore conscientious about the mental food she setbefore him. She did not share Peter's doubts. Some things she feltwere not for Northrup and that fast-flying pen of his! But there wereother glimpses behind the shields of King's Forest that did notmatter. To these Northrup was welcome. 

When the hour came for _court_ to sit, it became Northrup's habit toseek the front porch for exercise and fresh air. Sometimes the windownearest to Aunt Polly's sofa would be left open! Sometimes it wasclosed. 

In the latter emergency Northrup sought his exercise and fresh air ata distance. 

One day Maclin called. Northrup had not seen him before and wasinterested. Indirectly he was concerned with the story in hand for hewas the mysterious friend of Larry Rivers and the puller of manystrings in King's Forest; strings that were manipulated in ways thataroused suspicion and would be great stuff in a book. 

Northrup had seen Maclin from his room window and, when all was safe, quietly took to the back stairs and silently reached the piazza. 

The window by Aunt Polly's couch was open a little higher than usualand the words that greeted Northrup were:

"_I_ call it muggy, Mr. Maclin. That's what _I_ call it, and if thedraught hits the nape of your neck, set the other side of the hearthwhere there ain't no draught. "

This, apparently, the caller proceeded to do. Outside Northrup took achair and refrained from smoking. He wanted his presence to beunsuspected by the caller. He was confident that Aunt Polly knew ofhis proximity, and he felt sure that Maclin had come to find out moreabout him. 

From the first Northrup was aware of a subtle meaning for the call andhe wondered if the woman, clicking her needles, fully comprehended it!The man, Maclin, he soon gathered, was no ordinary personage. He had akind of superficial polish and culture that were evident in the tonesof his voice. After having accounted for his presence by stating thathe was looking about a bit and felt like being friendly, Maclin wasrounded up by Aunt Polly asking what he was looking about at?

Maclin laughed. 

"To tell the truth, " he said, as if taking Aunt Polly into hisintimate confidence, "I was looking at the Point. A darned dirty bitof ground with all those squatters on it. "

"We haven't ever called 'em that, Mr. Maclin. They're folks withnowhere else to live. " Aunt Polly clicked her needles. 

"They're a dirty, lazy lot. I can't get 'em to work over at the mines, do what I will. "

"As to that, Mr. Maclin, folks as are mostly drunk on bad whiskeycan't be expected to do good work, can they? Then again, if they aresober, I dare say they are too keen about those inventions of yoursthat must be so secret. Foreigners, for that purpose, I reckon areeasier to manage. "

Maclin shifted his position and put the nape of his neck nearer thewindow again and Northrup lost any doubt he had about Aunt Polly'sunderstanding of the situation. 

Maclin laughed. It was a trick of his to laugh while he got control ofhimself. 

"You're a real idealist, Miss Heathcote; most ladies are, some menare, too, until they have to handle the ugly facts of life. "

Peter was meant by "some men, " Northrup suspected. 

"Now, speaking of the whiskey, Miss Heathcote, it's as good over at myplace as the men can afford, and better, too. I don't make anything atthe Cosey Bar, I can assure you, but I know that men have to havetheir drink, and I think it's better to keep it under control. "

"That's real human of you, Mr. Maclin, but I wish to goodness you'dkeep the men under control after they've had their drink. Theycertainly do make a mess of the peace and happiness of others whilethey're indulging in their rights. "

A silence, then Maclin started again. "Truth is, Miss Heathcote, themen 'round here are shucks, and I'm keeping my eye open for the realinterest of King's Forest, not the sentimental interest. Now, thatPoint--we ought to clean that up, build decent, comfortable cottagesthere and a wharf; keep the men as have ambition and can pay rents, and get others in, foreigners if you like, who know their business andcan set a good example. We're all running to seed down here, MissHeathcote, and that's a fact. I don't mind telling you, you're awoman of a thousand and can see what's what, I _am_ inventing somepretty clever things down at my place and it wouldn't be safe to leton until they're perfected, and I do want good workers, not loafers orsnoopers, and I _do_ want that Point. It's nearer to the mines thanany other spot on the Lake. I want to build a good road to it; thesquatters could be utilized on that--the Pointers, I mean. You andyour brother ought to be keen enough to work with me, not against me. Sentiment oughtn't to go too far where a lot of lazy beggars areconcerned. "

The clicking of the needles was the only sound after Maclin's longspeech; he was waiting and breathing quicker. Northrup could hear thedeep breathing. 

"How do you feel about it, Miss Heathcote?"

"Oh! I don't let my feelings get the better of me till I know what'sstirring them. "

Northrup stifled a laugh, but Maclin, feeling secure, laughed loudly. 

"It's like asking me, Mr. Maclin, to get stirred up and set going by apig in a poke. " Aunt Polly's voice was thin and sharp. "I always _see_the pig before I get excited, maybe it would be best kept in the poke. Now, Peter and me have a real feeling about the Point--it belonged, asfar as we know, to old Doctor Rivers, and all that he had he left toMary-Clare and we feel sort of responsible to him and her. We wouldall shield anything that belonged to the old doctor. "

"Is her title clear to that land?" Maclin did not laugh now, Northrupnoted that. 

"Land! Mr. Maclin, anything as high-sounding as a title tacked on tothe Point is real ridiculous! But if the title ain't clear, I guessbrother Peter can make it so. Peter being magistrate comes in handy. "

"Miss Heathcote"--from his tones Northrup judged that Maclin wascoming into the open--"Miss Heathcote, the title of the Point isn't aclear one. I've made it my business to find out. Now I'm going toprove my friendliness--I'm not going to push what I know, I'll takeall the risks myself. I'll give Mrs. Rivers a fair price for that landand everything will be peaceful and happy if you will use yourinfluence with her and the squatters. Will you?"

Aunt Polly slipped from the sofa. Northrup heard her, and imagined thelook on her face. 

"No, Mr. Maclin, I won't! When the occasion rises up, I'll adviseMary-Clare against pigs in pokes and I'll advise the squatters tosquat on!"

Northrup again had difficulty in smothering his laugh, but Maclin'snext move surprised and sobered him. 

"Isn't that place under the stairs, Miss Heathcote, where the bar ofthe old inn used to be?"

"Yes, sir, yes!" It was an ominous sign when Aunt Polly addressed anyone as "sir. " "But that was before our time. Peter and I cleaned theplace out as best we could, but there are times now, even, while I sithere alone in the dark, when I seem to see shadows of poor wives andmothers and children stealing in that door a-looking for their men. Don't that thought ever haunt you, Mr. Maclin, over at the CoseyBar?"

They were sparring, these two. 

"No, it never does. I take things as they are, Miss Heathcote, and letthem go at that. Now, if _I_ were to run this place, do you know, I'ddo it right and proper and have a what's what and make money. "

"But you're not running this inn, sir. "

"Certainly I'm not _now_, that's plain enough, or I'd make King'sForest sit up and take notice. Well, well, Miss Heathcote, just talkover with your brother what I've said to you. A man looks at somethings different from a woman. Good-bye, ma'am, good-bye. Looks as ifit were clearing. "

As Maclin came upon the piazza he stopped short at the sight ofNorthrup by the open window. He wasn't often betrayed into showingsurprise, but he was now. He had come hoping to get a glimpse of thestranger; had come to get in an early warning of his power, but hewanted to control conditions. 

"Good afternoon, " he muttered. "Looks more like clearing, doesn't it?Stranger in these parts? I've heard of you; haven't had the pleasureof meeting you. "

Northrup regarded Maclin coolly as one man does another when there isno apparent reason why he should not. 

"The clouds _do_ seem lifting. No, I'm not what you might call astranger in King's Forest. Some lake, isn't it, and good woodland?"

"One of the family, eh? Happy to meet you. " Maclin offered a broad, heavy hand. Northrup took it and smiled cordially without speaking. "Staying on some time?"

"I haven't decided exactly. "

"Come over to the mines and look around. Nothing there as yet but adump heap, so to speak, but I'm working out a big proposition andwhile I have to go slow and keep somewhat under cover for a time--Idon't mind showing what _can_ be shown. "

"Thanks, " Northrup nodded, "I'll get over if I find time. I'm here onbusiness myself and am rather busy in a slow, lazy fashion, but I'llnot forget. "

Maclin put on his hat and turned away. Northrup got an unpleasantimpression of the man's head in the back. It was flat and his neck metit in flabby folds that wrinkled under certain emotions as other men'sforeheads did. The expressive neck was wrinkling now. 

Giving Aunt Polly time to recover her poise, Northrup went inside. Hefound the small woman hovering about the room, patting the furniture, dusting it here and there with her apron. Her glasses were quitemisty. 

"I hope you kept your ears open, " she exclaimed when she turned toNorthrup. 

"I did, Aunt Polly! Come, sit down and let's talk it over. "

Polly obeyed at once and let restraint drop. 

"That man has a real terrible effect on me, son. He's like acid sortercreeping in. I don't suppose he could do what he hints--but his hintsjust naturally make me anxious. "

"He cannot get a hold on you, Aunt Polly. Surely your brother is morethan a match for any one like Maclin. "

"When it comes to that, son, Peter can fight his own in the open, buthe ain't any hand to sense danger in the dark till it's too late. Peter never can believe a fellow man is doing him a bad turn till he'sbowled over. But then, " she ran on plaintively, "it ain't justus--Peter, Mary-Clare, and me--it's them folks down on the Point, " theold face quivered touchingly. "The old doctor used to say it was God'sacre for the living; the old doctor would have his joke. The Pointalways was a mean piece of land for any regular use, but it reachesout a bit into the lake and the fishing's good round it, and you canfasten boats to it and it's a real safe place for old folks andchildren. There's always drifting creatures wherever you may be, son, and King's Forest has 'em, but the old doctor held as they ought tohave some place to move in, if we let 'em be born. So he set aside thePoint and never took anything from them, though he gave them a lot, what with doctoring and funerals. Dear, dear! there are real comicalhappenings at the Point. I often sit and shake over them. Real humannature down there! Mary-Clare goes down and reads the Bible to thePointers--they just about adore her, and she wouldn't sell them out, not for bread and butter for her very own! It's the title as worriesPeter and me, son. We've always known it was tricky, but, lands! wenever thought it would come to arguing about and I put it to you: Whatdoes this Maclin man want of that Point?"

Northrup looked interested. 

"I'm going to find out, " he said presently, feeling strangely as if hehad become part and parcel of the matter. "I'm going to find out andyou mustn't worry any more, Aunt Polly. We'll try Maclin at his owngame and go him one better. He cannot account for me, I'm making himuneasy. Now you help the thing along by just squatting--that's a goodphrase of yours; one can accomplish much by just squatting on hisholdings. "

And now that tricky imagination of Northrup's pictured Mary-Clare inthe thick of it and carrying out the old doctor's whims; taking to thedesolate bit of ground the sweetness and brightness of herloveliness. It was disconcerting, but at the same time gratifying, that pervasive quality of Mary-Clare. She was already as deep in theplot of Northrup's work as she was in the Forest. Whenever Northrupsaw her, and he did often, on the road he was amused at the feeling hehad of _knowing_ her. So might it be had he come across an oldacquaintance who did not recognize him. It was a feeling wrought withexcitement and danger; he might some day startle her by takingadvantage of it. 

The weather, after the storm, took an unexpected turn. Instead ofbringing frost it brought days almost as warm as late summer. Thecolour glistened; the leaves clung to the branches, but the nightswere cool. The lake lay like an opal, flashing gorgeously in the sun, or like a moonstone, when the sun sank behind the hills. 

One afternoon Northrup went to the deserted chapel on the island. Hewalked around the building which was covered with a crimson vine; helooked up at the belfry, in which hung the bell so responsive tounseen hands. 

The place was like a haunted spot, but beautiful beyond words. Northrup tried the door--it swung in; it shared the peculiarities ofall the other doors of the Forest. 

Inside, the light came ruddily through the scarlet creeper thatcovered the windows--no stained glass could have been more exquisite;the benches were dusty and uncushioned, the pulpit dark and reprovingin its aloofness. By the most westerly window there was a space where, apparently, an organ had once stood. There was a table near by and achair. 

An idea gripped Northrup--he would come to the chapel and write. Therewas a stove by the door. He could utilize that should necessityarise. 

He sat down and considered. Presently he was lost in the working outof his growing plot; already he was well on his way. Over night, as itwere, his theme had become clear and connected. He meant to becomepart of his book, rather than its creator; he would be governed byevents; not seek to govern them. In short, as far as in him lay, hewould live, the next few weeks, as a man does who has lost hisidentity and moves among his fellows, intent on the present, but withthe background a blank. 

Northrup felt that if, at the end of his self-ordained exile, he hadregained his health, outlined a book, and ascertained what was thecause of the suspicious unrest of the Forest, he would haveaccomplished more than he had set out to do and would be in a positionwhere he could decide definitely upon his course regarding the war, about which few, apparently, felt as he did. 

It was his spiritual and physical struggle, as he contemplated thematter now, that was his undoing. He was trying to drive the horrorfrom his consciousness, as a thing apart from him and his. He wasoverwhelmed by the possessiveness of the awful thing. It caught andheld him, threatened everything he held sacred. Well, this should bethe test! He would abide by the outcome of his stay in the Forest. 

At that moment Maclin, oddly enough, came into Northrup's thoughts andthe fat, ingratiating man became part, not of the plot of the book, but the grim struggle across the sea. 

"Good God!" Northrup spoke aloud; "could it be possible?" All along hehad been able to ignore the suggestions of disloyalty and treacherythat many of his friends held, but a glaring possibility of Maclinplaying a hideous rôle alarmed him; made every fibre of his beingstiffen. The man was undoubtedly German, though his name was not. Whatwas he up to?

There are moments in life when human beings are aware of being butpuppets in a big game; they may tug at the strings that control them;may perform within certain limits, but must resign themselves to thefact that the strings are unbreakable. Such a feeling possessedNorthrup now. He laughed. He was not inclined to struggle--he bowed tothe inevitable with a keen desire for coöperation. 

At this point something caused Northrup to look around. 

Upon a bench near by, hunched like a gargoyle, with her vague facenested in the palms of her thin hands, sat the girl he had noted inthe yellow house the day of his arrival. One glance at her and sheseemed to bring the scene back. The sunny room, the children, thedogs, and the girl on the table, who had soon become so familiar tohim. 

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "And who are you?"

"Jan-an. "

Another name become a person! Northrup smiled. They were allmaterializing; the names, the stories. 

"I see. Well?"

There was a pause. The girl was studying him slowly, almost painfully, but she did not speak. 

"Where do you live, Jan-an?"

This made talk and filled an uncomfortable pause. 

"One place and another. I was left. "

"Left?"

"Yep. Left on the town. Folks take me in turn-about. I just jog along. I'm staying over to the Point now. Next I'm going to Aunt Polly. Ichooses, I do. I likes to jog along. "

The girl was inclined to be friendly and she was amusing. 

"Did you hear the bell ring the night you came--the ha'nt bell?" sheasked. 

"I certainly did. "

"'Twas a warning, and then here _you_ are! Generally warnings mean badthings, but Aunt Polly says you're right enough and generally theyain't when they're young. "

"Who are not, Jan-an?"

"Men. When they get old, like Uncle Peter, they meller or----"

"Or what?"

"Naturally drop off. "

Northrup laughed. The sound disturbed the girl and she scowled. 

"It's terrible to have folks think you're a fool to be laughed at, "she muttered. "I can't get things over. "

"What do you want to get over, Jan-an?"

Northrup was becoming interested. If straws show the wind's quarter, then a bit of driftwood may be depended upon to indicate the course ofa stream. Northrup was again both amused and surprised to find how hisvery ordinary presence in King's Forest was, apparently, affectingthe natives. Jan-an took on new proportions as she was regarded in thelight of a straw or a bit of driftwood. 

"Yer feelin's, " the girl answered simply. "When you don' understandlike most do, yer feelin's count, they do!"

"They certainly do, Jan-an. "

The girl considered this and struggled, evidently, to adjust hercompanion to suit her needs, but at last she shook her head. 

"I ain't going to take no chances with yer!" she muttered at length. "'Tain't natural. Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter ain't risking so muchas--her----"

"You mean----" Northrup felt guilty. He knew whom the girl meant--hefelt as if he were taking advantage; eavesdropping or reading someoneelse's letter. 

Jan-an sunk her face deeper into the cup of her hands--this pressedher features up and made her look laughably ugly. She was not takingmuch heed of the man near by; she was seeking to collect all theshreds of evidence she had gathered from listening, in her rapt, tenseway, and making some definite case for, or against, the stranger who, Aunt Polly had assured her, was "good and proper. "

"Now, everything was running on same as common, " Jan-an muttered--"sameas common. Then that old ha'nt bell took to ringing, like allpossessed. I just naturally thought 'bout you dropping out of a clearsky and asking us the way to the inn when it was plain as the nose onyer face how yer should go. What do you suppose folks paintsign-boards for, eh?" The twisted ideas sprang into a question. 

"That's one on me, Jan-an!" Northrup laughed. "I was afraid I'd befound out. "

"Can't yer read?" Jan-an could not utterly distrust this person whowas puzzling her. 

"Yes, I can read and write, Jan-an. "

"Then what in tarnation made yer plump in that way?"

"The Lord knows, Jan-an!" Almost the tone was reverent. 

"Then _he_ came ructioning in--Larry, I mean. An' everything isdifferent from what it was. Just like a bubbling pot"--poor Jan-angrew picturesque--"with the top wobbling. I wish"--she turned pleadingeyes on Northrup--"I wish ter God you'd clear out. "

For a moment Northrup felt again the weakening desire to follow thisadvice, but, as he thought on, his chin set in a fixed way that meantthat he was not going to move on, but stay where he was. He meant, also, to get what he could from this strange creature who had soughthim out. He convinced himself that it was legitimate, and since hemeant to get at the bottom of what was going on, he must use what cameto hand. 

"So Larry has come back?" he asked indifferently. Then: "I've caughtsight of him from a distance. Good-looking fellow, this Larry ofyours, Jan-an. "

"He ain't mine. If he was----" Jan-an looked mutinous and Northruplaughed. 

"See here, you!" The girl was irritated by the laugh. "Larry, hethinks that Mary-Clare has set eyes on yer before yer came that day. Larry is making ructions, and folks are talking. "

"Well, that's ridiculous. " Northrup found his heart beating a bitquicker. 

"I know it is, but Maclin can make Larry think anything. Honest toGod, yer ain't siding 'long of Maclin?"

"Honest to God, Jan-an, I'm not. "

"Then why did yer stumble in on us that way?"

"I don't know, Jan-an. That's honest to God, too!"

"Then if nothing is mattering ter yer, and one place is as good asanother, why don't you go along?"

Northrup gave this due consideration. He was preparing to answersomething in his own mind. The dull-faced girl was having a peculiareffect upon him. He was getting excited. 

"Well, Jan-an, " he said at last, "it's this way. Things _are_mattering. Mattering like thunder! And one place isn't as good asanother; this place is the only place on the map just now--catch on?"

Jan-an was making strenuous efforts to "catch on"; her face appearedlike a rubber mask that unseen fingers were pinching into comicalexpressions. 

Northrup began to wonder just how mentally lacking the girl was. 

"But tuck this away in your noddle, Jan-an. Your Uncle Peter and AuntPolly have the right understanding. They trust me, and you will someday. I'm going to stay right here--pass that along to anyone who asksyou, Jan-an. I'm going to stay here and see this thing out!"

"What thing?"

The elusive something that was puzzling the girl, the sense ofsomething wrong that her blinded but sensitive nature suffered from, loomed close. This man might make it plain. 

"What thing?" she asked huskily. Then Northrup laughed that disturbinglaugh of his. 

"I don't know, Jan-an. 'Pon my soul, girl, I'd give a good deal toknow, but I don't. I'm like you, just feeling things. "

Jan-an rose stiffly as if she were strung on wires. Her joints crackedas they fell into place, but once the long body stood upright, Northrup noticed that it was not without a certain rough grace and itlooked strong and capable of great endurance. 

"I've been following you since the first day when you landed, " Jan-anspoke calmly. There was no warning or distrust in the voice, merely astatement of fact. "And I'm going to keep on following and watching, so long as you stay. "

"Good! I'll never be really lonely then, and you'll sooner get totrusting me. "

"I ain't much for trusting till I knows. "

The girl turned and strode away. "Well, if you ever need me, try meout, Jan-an. Good-bye. "

Northrup felt ill at ease after Jan-an passed from sight. 

"Of all the messes!" he thought. "It makes me superstitious. What'sthe matter with this Forest?"

And then Maclin again came into focus. Around Maclin, apparently, thepublic thought revolved. 

"They don't trust Maclin. " Northrup began to reduce things to normal. "He's got them guessing with his damned inventions and secrecy. Thenevery outsider means a possible accomplice of Maclin. They hate theforeigners he brings here. They have got their eyes on me. All right, Maclin, my ready-to-wear villain, here's to you! And before we'rethrough with each other some interesting things will occur, or I'llmiss my guess. "

In much the same mood of excitement, Northrup had entered upon theadventure of writing his former book, with this difference: He hadgone to the East Side of his home city with all his anchors cast in afamiliar harbour; he was on the open sea now. There had been hismother and Kathryn before; the reliefs of home comforts, "fumigations"Kathryn termed them; now he was part of his environment, determined tocast no backward look until his appointed task was finished in failureor--success. 

The chapel and the day had soothed and comforted him: he was ready toabandon the hold on every string. This space of time, of unfetteredthought and work, was like existence in a preparation camp. Thisbecame a fixed idea presently--he was being prepared for service;fitted for his place in a new Scheme. That was the only safe way toregard life, at the best. Here, there, it mattered not, but thepreparation counted. 

CHAPTER VI

When Mary-Clare awoke the next morning she heard Larry still movingabout overhead as if he had been doing it all night. He was openingdrawers; going to and fro between closet and bed; pausing, rustlingpapers, and giving the impression, generally, that he was bent upon adefinite plan. 

Noreen was sleeping deeply, one little arm stretched over her pillowand toward her mother as if feeling for the dear presence. Somehow thepicture comforted Mary-Clare. She was strangely at peace. After herbungling--and she knew she had bungled with Larry--she _had_ securedsafety for Noreen and herself. It was right: the other way would havebent and cowed her and ended as so many women's lives ended. Larrynever could understand, but God could! Mary-Clare had a simple faithand it helped her now. 

While she lay thinking and looking at Noreen she became conscious ofLarry tiptoeing downstairs. She started up hoping to begin the new eraas right as might be. She wanted to get breakfast and start whatevermight follow as sanely as possible. 

But Larry had gone so swiftly, once he reached the lower floor, thatonly by running after him in her light apparel could she attract hisattention. He was out of the house and on the road toward the mines!

Then Mary-Clare, seized by one of those presentiments that often lighta dark moment, closed the door, shivering slightly, and wentupstairs. 

The carefully prepared bedchamber was in great disorder. Thebedclothes were pulled from the bed and lay in a heap near by; towels, the soiled linen that Larry had discarded for the fresh, that hadbeen placed in the bureau drawers, was rolled in a bundle and flung onthe hearth. 

This aspect of the room did not surprise Mary-Clare. Larry generallydropped what he was for the moment through with, but there was morehere than heedless carelessness. Drawers were pulled out and empty. The closet was open and empty. There was a finality about the scenethat could not be misunderstood. Larry was gone in a definite andsweeping manner. 

Dazed and perplexed, Mary-Clare went to the closet and suddenly wasmade aware, by the sight of an empty box upon the floor, that in herpreparation of the room she had left that box, containing the oldletters of her doctor, on a shelf and that now they had been takenaway!

What this loss signified could hardly be estimated at first. So longhad those letters been guide-posts and reinforcements, so long hadthey comforted and soothed her like a touch or look of her old friend, that now she raised the empty box with a sharp sense of pain. So mightshe gaze at Noreen's empty crib had the child been taken from her. 

Then, intuitively, Mary-Clare tried to be just, she thought that Larrymust have taken the letters because of old and now severed connectionsThey _were_ his letters, but----

Here Mary-Clare, also because she was just, considered the otherpossible cause. Larry might use the letters against her in the days tocome. Show them to others to prove her falseness and ingratitude. Thispossibility, however, was only transitory. What she had done wasinevitable, Mary-Clare knew that, and it seemed to her right--oh! _so_right. There was only one real fact to face. Larry was gone; theletters were gone. 

Mary-Clare began to tremble. The cold room, all that had so deeplymoved her was shaking her nerves. Then she thought that in his hurryLarry might have overturned the box--the letters might be on the shelfstill. Quickly she went into the closet and felt carefully everycorner. The letters were not there. 

Then with white face and chattering teeth she turned and facedJan-an. The girl had come noiselessly to the house and found her wayto the room where she had heard sounds--she had seen Larry fleeing onthe lake road as she came over the fields from the Point. 

"What's up?" she asked in her dull, even tones, while in her vacanteyes the groping, tender look grew. 

"Oh! Jan-an, " Mary-Clare was off her guard, "the letters; my dear olddoctor's letters--they are gone; gone. " Her feeling seemed out of allproportion to the loss. 

"Who took 'em?" And then Jan-an did one of those quick, intelligentthings that sometimes shamed sharper wits--she went to the hearth. "There ain't been no fire, " she muttered. "He ain't burned 'em. Whatdid he take them for?"

This question steadied Mary-Clare. "I'm not _sure_, Jan-an, that anyone has _taken_ the letters. You know how careless I am. I may haveput them somewhere else. "

"If yer have there's no need fussing. I'll find 'em. I kin findanything if yer give me time. I have ter get on the scent. "

Mary-Clare gave a nervous laugh. 

"Just old letters, " she murmured, "but they meant, oh! they meant somuch. Come, " she said suddenly, "come, I must dress and getbreakfast. "

"I've et. " Jan-an was gathering the bedclothes from the floor. Sheselected the coverlid and brought it to Mary-Clare. "There, now, " shewhispered, wrapping it about her, "you come along and get into beddownstairs till I make breakfast. You need looking after more thanNoreen. God! what messes some folks can make by just living!"

Things were reduced to the commonplace in an hour. 

The warmth of her bed, the sight of Noreen, the sound of Jan-an movingabout, all contributed to the state of mind that made her panic almostlaughable to Mary-Clare. 

Things had happened too suddenly for her; events had become congestedin an environment that was antagonistic to change. A change hadundoubtedly come but it must be met bravely and faithfully. 

The sun was flooding the big living-room when Mary-Clare, Noreen, andJan-an sat down to the meal Jan-an had prepared. There was a feelingof safety prevailing at last. And then Jan-an, her elbows on thetable, her face resting in her cupped hands, remarked slowly as ifrepeating a lesson:

"He's dead, Philander Sniff. Went terrible sudden after taking allthis time. I clean forgot--letters and doings. I can't think of morethan one thing at a time. "

Mary-Clare set her cup down sharply while Noreen with one of thosewhimsical turns of hers drawled in a sing-song:

"Old Philander Sniff, he died just like a whiff----"

"Noreen!" Mary-Clare stared at the child while Jan-an chuckled in arough, loose way as if her laugh were small stones rattling in herthroat. 

"Well, Motherly, Philander was a cruel old man. Just being dead don'tmake him anything different but--dead. "

"Noreen, you must keep quiet. Jan-an, tell me about it. "

Mary-Clare's voice commanded the situation. Jan-an's stony gurgleceased and she began relating what she had come to tell. 

"I took his supper over to him, same as usual, and set it down on theback steps, and when he opened the door I said, like I allas done, 'Peneluna says good-night, ' and he took in the food and slammed thedoor, same as usual. "

"Old Philander Sniff----" began Noreen's chant as she slipped from herchair intent upon a doll by the hearthside. 

Mary-Clare took no notice of her but nodded to Jan-an. 

"And then, " the girl went on, "I went in to Peneluna and told her andthen we et and went to bed. Long about midnight, I guess, there was ayell!" Jan-an lost her breath and paused, then rushed along: "He'draised his winder and after all the keeping still, he called forPeneluna to come. "

Mary-Clare visualized the dramatic scene that poor Jan-an was mumblingmonotonously. 

"And she went! I just lay there scared stiff hearing things an' seeing'em! Come morning, in walked Peneluna looking still and high and shedidn't say nothing till she'd gone and fetched those togs of hers, black 'uns, you know, that Aunt Polly gave her long back. She put 'emon, bonnet and veil an' everything. Then she took an old red rose outof a box and pinned it on the front of her bonnet--God! but she didlook skeery--and then said to me awful careful, 'Trot on toMary-Clare, tell her to fotch the marriage service _and_ the funeralone, both!' Jes' like that she said it. Both!"

"This is very strange, " Mary-Clare said slowly and got up. "I'm goingto the Point, Jan-an, and you will take Noreen to the inn, like a goodgirl. I'll call for her in the afternoon. "

"Take both!" Jan-an was nodding her willingness to obey. AndMary-Clare took her prayer-book with her. 

Mary-Clare had the quiet Forest to herself apparently, for on the wayto the Point she met no one. On ahead she traced, she believed, Larry's footprints, but when she turned on the trail to the Point, they were not there. 

All along her way Mary-Clare went over in her thought the story ofPhilander Sniff and Peneluna. It was the romance and mystery of thesordid Point. 

Years before, when Mary-Clare was a little child, Philander haddrifted, from no one knew where, to the mines and the Point. He livedin one of the ramshackle huts; gave promise of paying for it, did, infact, pay a few dollars to old Doctor Rivers, and then became asquatter. He was injured at the mines and could do no more work and atthat juncture Peneluna had arrived upon the scene from the sameunknown quarter apparently whence Philander had hailed. She took theempty cottage next Philander's and paid for it by service in DoctorRivers's home. She was clean, thrifty, and strangely silent. WhenPhilander first beheld her he was shaken, for a moment, out of hisglum silence. "God Almighty!" he confided to Twombly who had worked inthe mines with him and had looked after him in his illness; "yer can'tshake some women even when it's for their good. "

That was all. Through the following years the two shacks became theonly clean and orderly ones on the Point. When Philander hobbled fromhis quarters, Peneluna went in and scrubbed and scoured. After a timeshe cooked for the old man and left the food on his back steps. Hetook it in, ate it, and had the grace to wash the dishes beforesetting them back. 

"Some mightn't, " poor Peneluna had said to Aunt Polly in defence ofSniff. 

As far as any one knew the crabbed old man never spoke to his devotedneighbour, but she had never complained. 

"I wonder what happened before they came here?" After all the years oftaking the strange condition for granted, it sprang into quickenedlife. Mary-Clare was soon to know and it had a bearing upon her ownhighly sensitive state. 

She made her way to the far end of the Point, passing wide-eyedchildren at play and curious women in doorways. 

"Philander's dead!" The words were like an accompaniment, passing fromlip to lip. "An' she won't let a soul in. " This was added. 

"She will presently, " Mary-Clare reassured them. "She'll need you all, later. "

There was a little plot of grass between Peneluna's shack andPhilander's and a few scraggy autumn flowers edged a well-worn pathfrom one back door to the other!

At Philander's front door Mary-Clare knocked and Peneluna responded atonce. She was dressed as Jan-an had described, and for a momentMary-Clare had difficulty in stifling her inclination to laugh. 

The gaunt old woman was in the rusty black she had kept in readinessfor years; she wore gloves and bonnet; the long crêpe veil and theabsurd red rose wobbled dejectedly as Peneluna moved about. 

"Come in, child, and shut the world out. " Then, leading the way to aninner room, "Have yer got _both_ services?"

"Yes, Peneluna. " Then Mary-Clare started back. 

She was in the presence of the dead. He lay rigid and carefullyprepared for burial on the narrow bed. He looked decent, at peace, andwith that unearthly dignity that death often offers as its firstgift. 

Peneluna drew two chairs close to the bed; waved Mary-Claremajestically to one and took the other herself. She was going to layher secrets before the one she had chosen--after that the shut-outworld might have its turn. 

"I've sent word over to the Post Office, " Peneluna began, "and they'regoing to get folks, the doctor and minister and the rest. Before theyget here--" Peneluna paused--"before they get here I want that youshould act for the old doctor. "

This was the one thing needed to rouse Mary-Clare. 

"I'll do my best, Peneluna, " she whispered, and clutched theprayer-book. 

"The ole doctor, he knew 'bout Philander and me. He said"--Penelunacaught her breath--"he said once as how it was women like me that keptmen believing. He said I had a right to hold my tongue--he heldhis'n. "

Mary-Clare nodded. Not even she could ever estimate the secret load ofconfessions her beloved foster-father bore and covered with his raresmile. 

"Mary-Clare, I want yer should read the marriage service over me andhim!" Peneluna gravely nodded to her silent dead. "I got this to say:If Philander ain't too far on his journey, I guess he'll look back andunderstand and then he can go on more cheerful-like and easy. Lastnight he hadn't more than time to say a few things, but they clearedeverything, and if I'm his wife, he can trust me--a wife wouldn't harma dead husband when she _might_ the man who jilted her. " The wordscame through a hard, dry sob. Mary-Clare felt her eyes fill with hottears. She looked out through the one open window and felt the warmautumn breeze against her cheek; a bit of sunlight slanted across theroom and lay brightly on the quiet man upon the bed. "Read on, Mary-Clare, and then I can speak out. "

Opening the book with stiff, cold fingers, Mary-Clare read softly, brokenly, the solemn words. 

At the close Peneluna stood up. 

"Him and me, Mary-Clare, " she said, "'fore God and you is husband andwife. " Then she removed the red rose from her bonnet, laid it uponthe folded wrinkled hands of the dead man and drew the sheet overhim. 

Just then, outside the window, a bird flew past, peeped in, flutteredaway, singing. 

"Seems like it might be the soul of Philander, " Peneluna said--she wascrying as the old do, hardly realizing that they are crying. Her tearsfell unheeded and Mary-Clare was crying with her, but conscious ofevery hurting tear. 

"In honour bound, though it breaks the heart of me, I'm going tospeak, Mary-Clare, then his poor soul can rest in peace. 

"The Methodist parson, what comes teetering 'round just so often, always thought Philander was hell-bound, Mary-Clare; well, since thereain't anyone but that parson as knows so much about hell, to send for, I've sent for him and there's no knowing what he won't feel calledupon to say with Philander lying helpless for a text. So now, after Itell you what must be told, I want that you should read the burialservice over Philander and then that parson can do his worst--my earswill be deaf to him and Philander can't hear. "

There was a heavy pause while Mary-Clare waited. 

"Hell don't scare me nohow, " Peneluna went on; "seems like the mostinteresting folks is headed for it and I'll take good company everytime to what some church folks hands out. And, too, hell can't be halfbad if you have them you love with you. So the parson can do hisworst. Philander and me won't mind now. 

"Back of the time we came here"--Peneluna was picking her words as achild does its blocks, carefully in order to form the right word--"meand Philander was promised. "

Drifting about in Mary-Clare's thought a scrap of old scandal stirred, but it had little to feed on and passed. 

"Then a woman got mixed up 'twixt him and me. In her young days she'dbeen French and you know yer can't get away from what's born in theblood, and the Frenchiness was terrible onsettling. Philander wasside-twisted. Yer see, Mary-Clare, when a man ain't had nothing butwork and working folks in his life, a creature that laughs and dancesand sings gets like whiskey in the head, and Philander didn'trightfully know what he was about. "

Peneluna drew the end of her crêpe veil up and wiped her eyes. 

"They went off together, him and the furriner. Least, the furrinertook him off, and the next thing I heard she'd taken to her heels andPhilander drifted here to the mines. I knew he needed me more thanever--he was a dreadful creature about doing for himself, not eatingat Christian hours, just waiting till he keeled over from emptiness, so I came logging along after him and--stayed. He was considerableupset when he saw me and he never got to, what you might say, speakingto me, but he was near and he ate the food I left on his steps and hewashed the plates and cups and that meant a lot to Philander. If I'dbeen his proper wife he wouldn't have washed 'em. Men don't when theyget used to a woman. 

"And then"--here Peneluna caught her breath--"then last night hecalled from his winder and I came. He said, holding my hand like itwas the last thing left for him to hold: 'I didn't think I had a rightto you, Pen'--he used to call me Pen--'after what I did. And I've justpaid for my evil-doing up to the end, not taking comfort andforgiveness--just paying!' I never let on, Mary-Clare, how I'd paid, too. Men folks are blind-spotted, we've got to take 'em as they are. Philander thought he had worked out his soul's salvation while he wasstarving me, soul and body, but I never let on and he died smiling andsaying, 'The food was terrible staying, Pen, terrible staying. '"

Mary-Clare could see mistily the long, rigid figure on the bed, hereyes ached with unshed tears; her heart throbbed like a heavy pain. Here was something she had never understood; a thing so real andstrong that no earthly touch could kill it. What was it?

But Peneluna was talking on, her poor old face twitching. 

"And now, Mary-Clare, him and me is man and wife before God and you. You are terrible understanding, child. With all the fol-de-rol the olddoctor laid on yer, he laid his own spirit of knowing things on yer, too. Suffering learns folks the understanding power. I reckon the olddoctor had had his share 'fore he came to the Forest--but how you gotto knowing things, child, and being tender and patient, 'stead of hotand full of hate, I don't know! Now read, soft and low, so only usthree can hear--the last service. "

Solemnly, with sweet intonations, Mary-Clare read on and on. Again thebird came to the window ledge, looked in, and then flew off singingjubilantly. Peneluna smiled a fleeting wintry smile and closed hereyes; she seemed to be following the bird--or was it old Philander'ssoul?

When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignitywalked from the room, Mary-Clare following. 

"Now the Pointers can have their way 'cording to rule, Mary-Clare, "she whispered, "but you and me understand, child. And listen to this, I ain't much of a muchness, but come thick or thin, Mary-Clare, I'lldo my first and last for you 'cause of the secret lying 'twixt us. "

Then Mary-Clare asked the question that was hurting her with itsweight. 

"Peneluna, was it love, the thing that made you glad, through it all, just to wait?"

"I don't rightly know, Mary-Clare. It was something too big for me tocall by name, but I just couldn't act different and kill it, not evenwhen her as once was French made me feel I oughter. I wouldn't darstharm that feeling I had, child. "

"And it paid?"

"I don't know. I only know I was glad, when he called last night, thatI was waiting. "

Then Mary-Clare raised her face and kissed the old, troubled, fumblinglips. The thing, too big for the woman, was too big for the girl; butshe knew, whatever it was, it must not be hurt. 

"What are you going to do now?" she asked. 

"God knows, Mary-Clare. The old doctor gave this place to Philander, and he gave me mine, next door. I think, till I get my leadings, I'llhold to this and see what the Lord wants me to do with my old shack. I allas find someone waiting to share. Maybe Jan-an will grow to fitin there in time. When she gets old and helpless she'll need someplace to crawl to and call her own. I don't know, but I'm a powerfulwaiter and I'll keep an eye and ear open. "

On the walk home Mary-Clare grew deeply thoughtful. The recent scenetook on enormous significance. Detached from the pitiful setting, disassociated from the two forlorn creatures who were the actors inthe tragic story, there rose, like a bright and living flame, asomething that the girl's imagination caught and held. 

That something was quite apart from laws and codes; it came; could notbe commanded. It was something that marriage could not give, nor deathkill. Something that could exist on the Point. Something that couldn'tbe got out of one's heart, once it had entered in. What was it? Itwasn't duty or just living on. It was something too big to name. Whywas the wonder of it crowding all else out--after the long years?

Mary-Clare left the Point behind her. She entered the sweetautumn-tinted woods beyond which lay her home. She hoped--oh!yearningly she hoped--that Larry would not be there, not just yet. Shewould go for Noreen; she would stay awhile with Aunt Polly and tellher about what had just occurred--the service, but not the secretthing. 

Suddenly she stood still and her face shone in the dim woods. Justahead and around a curve, she heard Noreen's voice. But was itNoreen's?

Often, in her wondering moments, Mary-Clare had pictured her littlegirl as she longed for her to be--a glad, unthinking creature, such asMary-Clare herself had once been, a singing, laughing child. And now, just out of sight, Noreen was singing. 

There was a rich gurgle in the flute-like voice; it came floatingalong. 

"Oh! tell it again, please! I want to learn it for Motherly. It isawfully funny--and make the funny face that goes with it--thecrinkly-up face. "

"All right. Here goes!

 "Up the airy mountain, Down the rustly glen--

that's the way, Noreen, scuffle your feet in the leaves--

 "We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather--

Here, you, Noreen, play fair; scuffle and keep step, you littlebeggar!"

"But I may step on the wee men, the good men, " again the richchuckle. 

"No, you won't if you scuffle and then step high; they'll slip betweenyour feet. "

Then came the tramp, tramp of the oncoming pair. Big feet, littlefeet. Long strides and short hops. 

So they came in view around the turn of the rough road--Northrup withNoreen holding his hand and trying to keep step to the swinging wordsof the old song. 

And Northrup saw Mary-Clare, saw her with a slanting sunbeam on herradiant face. The romance of Hunter's Point was in her soul, and thewonder of her child's happiness. She stood and smiled that strange, unforgettable smile of hers; the smile that had its birth in unshedtears. 

Northrup hurried toward her, taking in, as he came, her lovelinessthat could not be detracted from by her mud-stained and roughclothing. The feeling of knowing her was in his mind; she seemedvividly familiar. 

"Your little daughter got homesick, or mother-sick, Mrs. Rivers"--Northruptook off his hat--"Aunt Polly gave me the privilege of bringing her toyou. We became friends from the moment we met. We've been making greatstrides all day. "

"Thank you, Mr. ----"

"Northrup. "

"Thank you, Mr. Northrup. You have made Noreen very happy--and shedoes not make friends easily. "

"But, Motherly, " Noreen was flushed and eager. "_He_ isn't a friend. Jan-an told me all about him. He's something the wild-wind brought. You are, aren't you, Mr. Sir?"

Northrup laughed. 

"Well, something like that, " he admitted. "May I walk along with you, Mrs. Rivers? Unless I go around the lake, I must turn back. "

And so they walked on, Noreen darting here and there quite unlike herstaid little self, and they talked of many things--neither could havetold after just what they talked about. The conversation was like astream carrying them along to a definite point ordained for them toreach, somewhere, some time, on beyond. 

"How on earth could she manage to be what she is?" pondered Northrup. "She's read and thought to some purpose. "

"What does he mean by being here?" pondered Mary-Clare. "This isn'tjust a happening. "

But they chatted pleasantly while they pondered. 

When they came near to the yellow house, Noreen, who was ahead, camerunning back. All the joyousness had fled from her face. She lookedheavy-eyed and dull. 

"She's tired, " murmured Mary-Clare, but she knew that that was notwhat ailed Noreen. 

And then she looked toward her house. Larry stood in the doorway, smoking and smiling. 

"Will you come and meet my husband?" she asked of Northrup. 

"I'll put off the pleasure, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Rivers. I havelearned that one cannot tamper with Aunt Polly's raised biscuits. It'slate, but may I call to-morrow?" Northrup stood bareheaded while hespoke. 

Mary-Clare nodded. She was mutely thankful when he strode on ahead andtoward the lake. 

It was while they were eating their evening meal that Larry remarkedcasually:

"So that's the Northrup fellow, is it?" Mary-Clare flushed and had asensation of being lassoed by an invisible hand. 

"Yes. He is staying at the inn--I sent Noreen there this morning whileI went over to the Point; he was bringing her home. "

"He seemed to know that you weren't home. "

"Children come in handy, " Larry smiled pleasantly. "More potato, Mary-Clare?"

"No. " Then, almost defiantly: "Larry, Mr. Northrup asked his way tothe inn the day he was travelling through. I have never spoken to himsince, until to-day. When he found the house empty this afternoon, henaturally----"

"Why the explanation?" Larry looked blank and again Mary-Clareflushed. 

"I felt one was needed. "

"I can't see why. By the way, Mary-Clare, those squatters at the Pointare going to get a rough deal. Either they're going to pay regular, orbe kicked out. I tell you when Tim Maclin sets his jaw, there is goingto be something doing. "

This was unfortunate, but Larry was ill at ease. 

"Maclin doesn't own the Point, Larry. "

"You better listen to Maclin and not Peter Heathcote. " Larry retracedhis steps. His doubt of Northrup had led him astray. 

Mary-Clare gave him a startled look. 

"Maclin's a brute, " she said quietly. "I prefer to listen to myfriends. "

"Maclin's our friend. Yours and mine. You'll learn that some day. "

"I doubt it, Larry, but he's your employer and I do not forget that. "

"I wouldn't. And you're going to change your mind some fine day, mygirl, about a lot of things. "

"Perhaps. "

"I'm sleeping outside, Mary-Clare. " Larry rose lazily. "I just droppedin to--to call. " He laughed unpleasantly. 

"I'm sorry, Larry, that you feel as you do. "

"Like hell you are!" The words were barely audible. "I'm going to giveyou a free hand, Mary-Clare, but I'm going to let folks see your game. That's square enough. "

"All right, Larry. " Mary-Clare's eyes flickered. Then: "Why did youtake those letters?"

Larry looked blankly at her. 

"I haven't taken any letters. What you hoaxing up?" He waited a momentbut when Mary-Clare made no reply he stalked from the house angrilyand into the night. 

CHAPTER VII

Maclin rarely discussed Larry's private affairs with him, but hecontrolled them, nevertheless, indirectly. His hold on Larry wassubtle and far-reaching. It had its beginning in the old college dayswhen the older man discovered that the younger could be manipulated, by flattery and cheap tricks, into abject servitude. Larry was not askeen-witted as Maclin, but he had a superficial cleverness; a lack ofmoral fibre and a certain talent that, properly controlled, offered noend of possibility. 

So Maclin affixed himself to young Rivers in the days before thedoctor's death; he and Larry had often drifted apart but came togetheragain like steel responding to the same magnet. While apparentlyintimate with Rivers, Maclin never permitted him to pass a given line, and this restriction often chafed Larry's pride and egotism; still, hedared not rebel, for there were things in his past that had best beforgotten, or at least not referred to. 

When Maclin had discovered the old, deserted mines and bought them, apparently Larry was included in the sale. Maclin sought to befriendly with Mary-Clare when he first came to King's Forest; butfailing in that direction, he shrugged his shoulders and made light ofthe matter. He never pushed his advantage nor forgave a slight. 

"Never force a woman, " he confided to Larry at that juncture, "thatis, if she is independent. "

"What you mean, independent?" Larry knew what he meant very well; knewthe full significance of it. He fretted at it every time his desiresclashed with Mary-Clare's. If he, not she, owned the yellow house; ifshe were obliged to take what he chose to give her, how differenttheir lives might have been!

Larry was thinking of all this as he made his way to the mines afterdenying that he had taken the letters. Those letters lay snugly hidunder his shirt--he had a use for them. He could feel them as hewalked along; they seemed to be feeding a fire that was slowlyigniting. 

Larry was going now to Maclin with all barriers removed. Hissuspicious mind had accepted the coarsest interpretation ofMary-Clare's declaration of independence. Maclin's hints were, to him, established facts. There could be but one possible explanation for heract after long, dull years of acceptance. 

"Well, " Larry puffed and panted, "there is always a way to get theupper hand of a woman and, I reckon, Maclin, when he's free to speakout, can catch a fool woman and a sneaking man, who is on no fairbusiness, unless I miss _my_ guess. " Larry grunted the words out andstumbled along. "First and last, " he went on, "there's just two waysto deal with women. Break 'em or let them break themselves. "

Larry's idea now was to let Mary-Clare break herself with the Forestas audience. He wasn't going to do anything. No, not he! Livingoutside his home would set tongues wagging. All right, let Mary-Clarestop their wagging. 

There was always, with Larry, this feeling of hot impotence when heretreated from Mary-Clare. For so vital and high-strung a woman, Mary-Clare could at critical moments be absolutely negative, to allappearances. Where another might show weakness or violence, she seemedto close all the windows and doors of her being, leaving her attackerin the outer darkness with nothing to strike at; no ear to assail. Itwas maddening to one of Larry's type. 

So had Mary-Clare just now done. After asking him about the letters, she had withdrawn, but in the isolation where Larry was left he couldalmost hear the terrific truths he guiltily knew he deserved, hurledat him, but which his wife did not utter. Well, two could play at hergame. 

And in this mood he reached Maclin; accepted a cigar and stretched hisfeet toward the fire in his owner's office. 

Maclin was in a humanly soothing mood. He fairly crooned over Larryand could tell to a nicety the workings of his mind. 

He puffed and puffed at his enormous cigar; he was almost hidden fromsight in the smoke but his words oozed forth as if they were cuttingthrough a soft, thick substance. 

"Now, Larry, " he said; "don't make a mistake. Some women don't haveweak spots, they have knots--weak ends tied together, so to speak. Thecold, calculating breed--and your wife, no offence intended, is mightychilly--can't be broken, as you intimate, but they can be untiedand"--Maclin was pleased with his picturesque figures of speech--"leftdangling. "

This was amusing. Both men guffawed. 

"Do you know, Rivers"--Maclin suddenly relapsed into seriousness--"itwas a darned funny thing that a girl like your wife should fallinto your open mouth, marry you off-hand, as one might say. Mightyfunny, when you come to think of it, that your old man should lether--knowing all he knew and seeming to set such a store by thegirl. "

Larry winced and felt the lash on his back. So long had that lash hungunused that the stroke now made him cringe. 

"No use harking back to that, Maclin, " he said: "some things ain'tcommon property, you know, even between you and me. We agreed tothat. "

"Yes?" the word came softly. Was it apologetic or threatening?

There was a pause. Then Maclin unbent. 

"Larry, " he began, tossing his cigar aside, "you haven't ever given mefull credit, my boy, for what I've tried to do for you. See here, oldman, I have got you out of more than one fix, haven't I?"

Larry looked back--the way was not a pleasant one. 

"Yes, " he admitted, "yes, you have, Maclin. "

"I know you often get fussed, Rivers, about what you term my _using_you in business, but I swear to you that in the end you'll thinkdifferent about that. I've got to work under cover myself to a certainextent. I'm not my own master. But this I can say--I'm willing to be apart of a big thing. When the public _is_ taken into our confidence, we'll all feel repaid. Can you--do you catch on, Larry?"

"It's like catching on to something in the dark, " Larry muttered. 

"Well, that's something, " Maclin said cheerfully. "Something to holdto in the dark isn't to be sneered at. "

"Depends upon what it is!" Apparently Larry was in a difficult mood. Maclin tried a new course. 

"It's one thing having a friend in the dark, old man, and anotherhaving an enemy. I suppose that's what you mean. Well, have I beenmuch of an enemy to you?"

"I just told you what I think about that. " Larry misinterpretedMaclin's manner and took advantage. 

"Larry, I'm going to give you something to chew on because I _am_ yourfriend and because I want you to trust me, even in the dark. Thefellow Northrup----"

Larry started as if an electric spark had touched him. Maclin appearednot to notice. 

"--is on our tracks, but he mustn't suspect that we have sensed it. "The words were ill-chosen. Having any one on his tracks was asignificant phrase that left an ugly fear in Larry's mind. 

"What tracks?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Our inventions. " Maclin showed no nervous dread. "These inventions, big as they are, old man, are devilish simple. That's why we have tolie low. Any really keen chap with the right slant could steal themfrom under our noses. That's why I like to get foreigners inhere--these Dutchies don't smell around. Give them work to do, andthey do it and ask no questions; the others snoop. Now this Northrupis here for a purpose. "

"You know that for a fact, Maclin?"

"Sure, I know it. " Maclin was a man who believed in holding all thecards and discarding at his leisure; he always played a slow game. "Iknow his kind, but I'm going to let him hang himself. Now see here, Rivers, you better take me into your confidence--I may be able to fixyou up. What's wrong between you and your wife?"

This plunge sent Larry to the wall. When a slow man does make a drive, he does deadly work. 

"Well, then"--Larry looked sullen--"I've left the house and mean tostay out until Mary-Clare comes to her senses!"

"All right, old man. I rather smelled this out. I only wanted to makesure. It's this Northrup, eh? Now, Rivers, I could send you off on atrip but it would be the same old story. I hate to kick you whenyou're down, but I will say this, your wife doesn't look like onemourning without hope when you're away, and with this Northrup chap onthe spot, needing entertainment while he works his game, I'm thinkingyou better stay right where you are! You can, maybe, untie the knot, old chap. Give her and this Northrup all the chance they want, and ifyou leave 'em alone, I guess the Forest will smoke 'em out. "

Maclin came nearer to being jubilant than Rivers had ever seen him. The sight was heartening, but still something in Larry tempered hisenthusiasm. He had been able, in the past, to exclude Mary-Clare fromthe inner sanctuary of Maclin's private ideals, and he hated now tobetray her into his clutches. Maclin was devilishly keen under thatslow, sluggish manner of his and he hastened, now, to say:

"Don't get a wrong slant on me, old man. I'm only aiming for the goodof us all, not the undoing. I want to show this fellow Northrup up toyour wife as well as to others. Then she'll know her friends from herfoes. Naturally a woman feels flattered by attentions from a man likethis stranger, but if she sees how he's taken the Heathcotes in andhow he's used her while he was boring underground, she'll flare up andknow the meaning of real friends. Some women have to be _shown_!"

By this time Larry suspected that much had gone on during his absencethat Maclin had not confided to him. He was thoroughly aroused. 

"Now see here, Rivers!" Maclin drew his chair closer and laid his handon Larry's arm--he gloated over the trouble in the eyes holding hiswith dumb questioning. "It's coming out all right. We're in early andwe've got the best seats--only keep them guessing; guessing! Larry, your wife goes--down to the Point a lot--goes missionarying, you know. Well, this Northrup is tramping around in the woods skirting thePoint. "

Just here Larry started and looked as if something definite had cometo him. Had he not seen Northrup that very day in the woods?

"Now there's an empty shack on the Point, Rivers--some old squatterhas died. I want you to get that shack somehow or another. It ought tobe easy, since they say your wife owns the place; it's your businessto _get_ it and then watch out and keep your mouth shut. You've got tolive somewhere while you can't live decent at home. 'Tisn't likelyyour wife, having slammed the door of her home on you, will oust youfrom that hovel on the Point--your being there will work bothways--she won't dare to take a step. "

Larry drew a sigh, a heavy one, and began to understand. He saw morethan Maclin could see. 

"She hasn't turned me out, " he muttered. "I came out. "

"Let her explain that, Rivers. See? She can't do it while she'sgallivanting with this here Northrup. "

Larry saw the possibilities from Maclin's standpoint, but he sawMary-Clare's smile and that uplifted head. He was overwhelmed again bythe sense of impotence. 

"Give a woman a free rein, Rivers, she'll shy, sooner or later. "Maclin was gaining assurance as he saw Larry's discomfort. "That'swhat keeps women from getting on--they shy! When all's said, a tightrein is a woman's best good, but some women have to learn that. "

Something in Larry burned hot and resentful, but whether it wasbecause of Maclin or Mary-Clare he could not tell, so he kept still. 

"Let's turn in, anyway, for to-night, old boy. " Maclin's voice soundedpaternal. "To-morrow is to-morrow and you'll feel able to tackle thejob after a night's sleep. "

So they turned in and it was the afternoon of the next day when Larrytook his walk to the Point. 

Just as he started forth Maclin gave him two or three suggestions. 

"I'd offer to hire the shanty, " he said. "That will put you in a safeposition, no matter how they look at it. An old woman by the name ofPeneluna thinks she owns it. There's an old codger down there, too, Twombley they call him--he's smart as the devil, but you can't tellwhich way he may leap. Try him out. Get him to take sides with you ifyou can. "

"I remember Twombley, " Larry said. "Dad used to get a lot of fun outof him in the old days. I haven't been on the Point since I was aboy. "

"It's a good thing you never troubled the Point, Rivers. They'll bemore stirred by you now. "

"Maybe they'll kick me out. "

"Never fear!" Maclin reassured him. "Not if you show good money andplay up to your old dad. He had everyone eating out of his hand, allright. "

So Larry, none too sure of himself, but more cheerful than he hadbeen, set forth. 

Now there is one thing about the poor, wherever you find them--theylive out of doors when the weather permits. Given sunshine and softair, they promptly turn their backs on the sordid dens they call homeand take to the open. The day that Larry went to the Point was warmand lovely, and all the Pointers, or nearly all of them, were inevidence. 

Jan-an was sweeping the steps of Peneluna's doorway, sweeping themviciously, sending the dust flying. She was working off her state ofmind produced by the recent funeral of old Philander. She wasspiritually inarticulate, but her gropings were expressed in serviceto them she loved and in violence to them she hated. As she swept shewas cleaning for Peneluna, and at the same time, sweeping to the windsof heaven the memory of the dreadful minister who had said suchfearsome things about the dead who couldn't talk back. The man hadmade Mary-Clare cry as she sat holding Peneluna's hard, cold hand. Jan-an knew how hard and cold it was, for she had held the other indecent sympathy. 

Among the tin cans and ash heaps the children of the Point wereplaying. One inspired girl had decked a mound of wreckage and garbagewith some glittering goldenrod and was calling her mates to come andsee the "heaven" she had made. 

Larry laughed at this and muttered: "Made it in hell, eh, kid?"

The child scowled at him. 

Twombley was sitting in his doorway watching what was going on. He wasa gaunt, sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, and sharp-tongued man. He was thelaziest man on the Point, but with all the earmarks of the cleverest. 

"Well, Twombley, how are you?"

Twombley spat and took Larry out of the pigeonhole of his memory--labelledand priced; Twombley had not thought of him in years, as a definiteindividual. He was Mary-Clare's husband; a drifter; a tool of Maclin. Assuch he was negligible. 

"Feeling same as I look, " he said at last. He was ready to appraisethe man before him. 

"Bad nut, " was what he thought, but diluted his sentiments because ofthe relationship to the old doctor and Mary-Clare. Twombley, likeeveryone else, had a shrine in his memory--rather a musty, shabby one, to be sure, but it held its own sacredly. Doctor Rivers and all thatbelonged to him were safely niched there--even this son, the husbandof Mary-Clare about whom the Forest held its tongue because he was theson of the old doctor. 

"Old Sniff's popped, I hear. " Larry, now that he chose to be friendly, endeavoured to fit his language to his hearer's level. "Have a cigar, Twombley?"

"I'll keep to my pipe. " The old man's face was expressionless. "If youdon't get a taste for what you can't afford you don't ruin it for whatyou can. Yes, looks as if Sniff was dead. They've buried him, at anyrate. "

"Who's got his place?"

"Peneluna Sniff. "

"Was he married?" Floating in Rivers's mind was an old story, but itfloated too fast for him to catch it. 

"She went through the marriage service. That fixes it, don't it?"Twombley puffed loudly. 

"I suppose it does, but I kind of recall that there was a quarrelbetween them. "

"Ain't that a proof that they was married?" Twombley's eyes twinkledthrough the slits of lids--he always squinted his eyes close when hewanted to go slow. Larry laughed. 

"Didn't Peneluna Sniff, or whatever her name is, live in a house byherself?" he asked. He was puzzled. 

"She sure did. Your old man was a powerful understander of humannater. A few feet 'twixt married folks, he uster say, often saves theday. "

"Well, who's got her house?"

"She's got it. "

"Empty?"

"I guess the same truck's in it that always was. I ain't seen anymoving out. "

"Is Mrs. Sniff at home?"

"How do you suppose I know, young man? These ain't calling hours onthe Point. "

"Well, they're business hours, all right, Twombley. See here, myfriend, I'm going to hire that house of Mrs. Sniff if I can. "

Twombley's slits came close together. 

"Yes?" was all he vouchsafed. 

"Yes. And I wish you'd pass the word along, my friend. "

"I don't pass nothing!" Twombley interrupted. "I take all I kin git. Imake use of what I can. The rest, I chuck. "

"Well, have it your own way, but I'm your friend, Twombley, and thefriend of your neighbours. I cannot say more now--but you'll allbelieve it some day. "

"Maclin standing back of yer, young feller?"

"Yes. And that's where you've made another bad guess, Twombley. Maclin's your friend, only he isn't free to speak out just now. "

"Gosh! we ain't eager for him to speak. The stiller he is the betterwe like it. "

"He knows that. He's given up--he is going to see what I can make youfeel--I'm one of you, you know that, Twombley. "

"Never would have guessed it, son!" Twombley leered. 

"Well, my wife's always been your friend--what's the difference? I'vebeen on my job; she's been on hers--it's all the same, only now I'mgoing to prove it!"

"Gosh! you'll be a shock to Maclin all right. "

"No, I won't, Twombley. You're wrong about him. He's meant right, butnot being one of us he's bungled, he knows it now. He's listened to meat last. "

Larry could be a most important-appearing person when there was no oneto prick his little bubble. Twombley eyed his visitor calmly. 

"Funny thing, life is, " he ruminated, seeming to forget Larry'spresence. "Yer get to thinking you're running down hill on a greasedplank, and sudden--a nail catches yer breeches and yer stop in time tosee where yer was going!"

"What then, Twombley?"

"Oh! nothing. Only as long as yer breeches hold and the nail don'tcome out, yer keep on looking!"

Again Twombley spat. Then, seeing his guest rising, he asked withgreat dignity:

"Going, young sir?"

"Yes, over to Mrs. Sniff's. And if we are neighbours, Twombley, let usbe friends. My father had a liking for you, I remember. "

"I'm not forgetting that, young sir. "

When Larry reached Mrs. Sniff's, Jan-an was still riotously sweepingthe memories of the funeral away. She turned and looked at Larry. Then, leaning on her broom, she continued to stare. 

"Well, what in all possessed got yer down here?" asked the girl, herface stiffening. 

"Where's Mrs. Sniff?" Larry asked. He always resented Jan-an, ongeneral principles. She got in his way too often. When she was out ofsight he never thought of her, but her vacant stare and monotonousdrawl were offensive to him. 

He had once suggested that she be confined somewhere. "You never cantell about her kind, " he had said; he had a superstitious fear ofher. 

"What, shut the poor child from her freedom?" Aunt Polly had askedhim, "just because we cannot tell? Lordy! Larry Rivers, there wouldn'tbe many people running around loose if we applied that rule to them. "

There were some turns that conversation took that sent Larry intosudden silences--this had been one. He had never referred to Jan-an'streatment after that, but he always resented her. 

Jan-an continued to stare at him. 

"There ain't no Mrs. Sniff" she said finally. "What's ailin' folksaround here?"

"Well, where's Miss Peneluna?" Larry ventured, thinking back to theold title of his boyhood days. 

"Setting!" Jan-an returned to her sweeping and Larry stepped aside. 

"I want to see her, " he said angrily. "Get out of the way. "

"She ain't no great sight, and I'm cleaning up!" Jan-an scowled andher energy suggested that Larry might soon be included among thethings she was getting rid of. 

"See here"--Larry's eyes darkened--"if you don't stand aside----"

But at this juncture Peneluna loomed in the doorway. She regardedLarry with a tightening of the mouth muscles. Inwardly she thought ofhim as a bad son of a good father, but intuitions were not proofs andbecause Doctor Rivers had been good, and Mary-Clare was always to beconsidered, the old woman kept her feelings to herself. 

She was still in her rusty black, the rakish bonnet set awry on herhead. 

"Come in!" she said quietly. "And you, Jan-an, you trundle over to myold place and clean up. "

Larry went inside and sat down in the chair nearest the door. Theneatness and order of the room struck even his indifferent eyes, sounexpected was it on the Point. 

"Well?" Peneluna looked at her visitor coolly. Larry did not speak atonce--he was going to get the house next door; he must have it and hedid not want to make any mistakes with the grim, silent woman nearhim. He was not considering the truth, but he was selecting the bestlies that occurred to him; the ones most likely to appeal to hisfuture landlady. 

"Miss Peneluna, " he began finally, but the stiff lips interruptedhim:

"_Mrs. Sniff_. "

"Good Lord! Mrs. Sniff, then. You see, I didn't know you weremarried. "

"Didn't you? You might not know everything that goes on. You don'ttrouble us much. Your goings and comings leave us strangers. "

Larry did not reply. He was manufacturing tears, and presently, toPeneluna's amazement, they glistened on his cheeks. 

"I wonder"--Larry's voice trembled--"I wonder if I can speak openly toyou, Mrs. --Mrs. Sniff? You were in my father's house; he trusted you. I do not seem to have any one but you at this crisis. "

Peneluna sneezed. She had a terrible habit of sneezing at will--it waspositively shocking. 

"I guess there ain't any reason for you not speaking out your ideas tome, " she said cautiously. "I ain't much of a fount of wisdom, but Iain't a babbling brook, neither. "

She was thinking that it would be safer to handle Rivers than to letothers use him, and she knew something of the trouble at the yellowhouse. Jan-an had regaled her with some rare tidbits. 

"Peneluna, Mary-Clare and I have had some words; I've left home. "

There was no answer to this. Larry moistened his lips and went on:

"Perhaps Mary-Clare has told you?"

"No, she ain't blabbed none. "

This was disconcerting. 

"She wouldn't, and I am not going to, either. It's just amisunderstanding, Mrs. Sniff. I could go away and let it rest there, but I fear I've been away too much and things have got snarled. Mary-Clare doesn't rightly see things. "

"Yes she does, Larry Rivers! She's terrible seeing. " Peneluna's eyesflashed. 

"All right then, Mrs. Sniff. _I want her to see!_ I want her to see mehere, looking after her interests. I cannot explain; you'll all knowsoon enough. Danger's threatening and I'm going to be on the spot!You've all got a wrong line on Maclin, so he's side-stepped andlistened to me at last; I'm going to show up this man Northrup who ishanging round. I want to hire your house, Mrs. Sniff, and live on hereuntil----"

Peneluna sneezed lustily; it made Larry wince. 

"Until Mary-Clare turns you out?" she asked harshly. "And gets talkedabout for doing it--or lets you stay on reflecting upon her what can'ttell her side? Larry Rivers, you always was a thorn in your goodfather's side and I reckon you've been one in Mary-Clare's. "

Larry winced again and recalled sharply the old vacations and thiswoman's silent attitude toward him. It all came back clearly. He couldalways cajole Aunt Polly Heathcote, but Peneluna had explained herattitude toward him in the past by briefly stating that she"internally and eternally hated boys. "

"You're hard on me, Mrs. Sniff. You'll be sorry some day. "

"Then I'll be sorry!" Peneluna sneezed. 

Presently her mood, however, changed. She regarded Larry with newinterest. 

"How much will you give me for my place?" Peneluna leaned forwardsuddenly and quite took Larry off his guard. He had succeeded sounexpectedly that it had the effect of shock. 

"Five dollars a month, Mrs. Sniff. "

"I'm wanting ten. "

This was a staggering demand. 

"How bad does he want it?" Peneluna was thinking. 

"How far had I best give in?" Larry estimated. 

"Make it seven, " he ventured. 

"Seven and then three dollars a week more if I cook and serve foryou. "

Larry had overlooked this very important item. 

"All right!" he agreed. "When can I come?"

"Right off. " Peneluna felt that she must get him under her eye as soonas possible. She moved to the door. 

"You'll make it straight with Mary-Clare?"

Larry was following the rigid form out into the gathering dark--astorm was rising; the bell on the distant island was ringing gleefullylike a wicked little imp set free. 

"I'll tell her that you're here and that she best let you stay on, ifthat's what you mean. " Peneluna led the way over the well-worn pathshe had often trod before. "And, Larry Rivers, I don't rightly know asI'm doing fair and square, but look at it as you will, it's better methan another if anything is wrong. I served yer good father and I seta store by yer wife and child--and I want to hang hold of you all. I've let you have yer way down here, but I don't want any ructions andI ain't going to have Maclin's crowd hinting and defiling anybody. "

"I'll never forget this, Mrs. Sniff. " In the gathering gloom, behindPeneluna's striding form, Larry's voice almost broke again andundoubtedly the tears were on his cheeks. "Some day, when you knowall, you'll understand. "

"I'm a good setter and waiter, Larry Rivers, and as to understanding, that is as it may be. I can only see just so far! I can't turn my backon the old doctor's son nor Mary-Clare's husband but I don't want anytricks. You better not forget that! There's a bed in yonder. " The twohad entered the house next door. Jan-an had done good work. The placewas in order and a fire burned in the stove. "I'll fetch food later. "With this Peneluna, followed by Jan-an, a trifle more vague thanusual, left the house. 

The rain was already falling and the wind rising--it was the hauntedwind; the bell sounded in the distance sharply. Jan-an paused in thegathering darkness and spoke tremblingly:

"What's a-going on?" she asked. Peneluna turned and laid her hand onthe girl's shoulder; her face softened--but Jan-an could not seethat. 

"Child"--the old voice fell to a whisper--"I ain't going to expect toomuch of yer--God Almighty made yer out of a skimpy pattern, I know, but what He did give yer can be helped along by using it for them yerlove. Child, watch there!"

A long crooked forefinger pointed to the shack, the windows of whichwere already darkened--for Larry had drawn the shades!

"Watch early and late there! Keep your mouth shut, except to me. Jan-an, I can trust yer?"

The girl was growing nervous. 

"Yes'm, " she blurted suddenly and then fell to weeping. "I keepfeelin' things like wings a-touching of me, " she muttered. "I hate thefeelin'. When nothing ain't happened ever, what's the reason it haster begin now?"

It was nearly midnight when Peneluna sat down by her fireside tothink. She had cooked a meal for Larry and carried it to him; she hadsoothed and fed Jan-an and put her to bed on a cot near the bed uponwhich old Philander Sniff had once rested, and now Peneluna, withSniff's old Bible on her knees, felt safe to think and read, and itseemed as if the wings Jan-an had sensed were touching her! The bookwas marked at passages that had appealed to the old man. Often, afterMary-Clare had read to him and left, thinking that she had made noimpression, the trembling, gnarled hand had pencilled the words to bereread in lonely moments. 

Peneluna had never read the Bible from choice; indeed, her educationhad been so limited as to be negligible, but lately these pencilledmarks had become tremendously significant to her. She was able, somehow, to follow Philander Sniff closely, catching sight of him, nowand again, in an illumined way guided by the Bible verses. It was likethe blind leading the blind, to be sure, and often it seemed a blindtrail, but occasionally Peneluna could pause and take a long breathwhile she beheld the vision that must have helped her friend upon hisisolated way. 

To-night, however, she was tired and puzzled and worried. She keptreverting to Larry: her eyes only lighted on the printed words beforeher; her thoughts drifted. 

What had been going on in the Forest? Why was the storm breaking?

But suddenly a verse more heavily marked than the others stayed her:

 And a highway shall be there, and a way and it shall be called the way of holiness. The wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. 

Over and over Peneluna read and pondered; more and more she puzzled. 

"Land o' love!" she muttered at last. "Now these here words meansomething particular. Seems like they must get into me with theirmeaning if I hold to 'em long enough. Lord! I don't see how folks canenjoy religion when you have to swallow it without tasting it. "

But so powerful is suggestion through words, that presently the oldwoman became hypnotized by them. They sprang out at her likeflashes--one by one. "Highway"--she could grasp that. "A way and itshall be called"--these words ran into each other but--the "way" held. "The wayfarer"--well! that was easy; all folks taking to the highwaywere wayfarers--"though fools shall not err therein. "

Peneluna, without realizing it, was on The Highway over which allpass, living, seeing, feeling, and storing up experience. In oldPhilander's quiet memory-haunted room she was pausing and lookingback; groping forward--understanding as she had never understoodbefore!

At times, catching the meaning of what the present held, her old facequivered as a child's does that is lost, and she would _think back_, holding to some word or look that gave her courage again to fix hereyes ahead. 

"So! so!" she would nod and mutter. "So! so!" It was like meetingothers on The Highway, greeting them, and then going on alone!

That was the hurt of it all--she was alone. If only there had beensomeone to hold her hand, to help her when she stumbled, but no! shewas like a creature in a land of shadowy ghosts. Ghosts whom she knew;who knew her, but they could not linger long with her. 

More than the others, Philander persisted, but perhaps that wasbecause of the pencilled words. They were guide-posts he had left forher. And strangest of all, this passing to and fro on The Highwayseemed to concern Larry Rivers most of all. Larry, who, during all theyears, had meant nothing more to King's Forest than that he was theold doctor's son, Mary-Clare's husband, and Maclin's secret employee. 

Larry, asleep in the shack next door, had taken on new proportions. Hemeant, for the first time, to Peneluna, a person to whom she owedsomething by virtue of knowledge. Knowledge! What really did she know?How did she know it? She did not question--she accepted and becameresponsible in a deep and grateful manner. She must remember aboutLarry. Remember all she could--it would help her now. 

The trouble, Peneluna knew, began with Larry's mother. Larry's motherhad wrecked the old doctor's life; had driven him to King's Forest. Noone had ever told Peneluna this--but she knew it. It did not matterwhat that woman had done, she had hurt a man cruelly. Once the olddoctor had said to Peneluna--it came sharply back, now, like a callfrom a wayfarer:

"Miss Pen, it is because of such women as you and Aunt Polly that men_can_ keep their faith. "

That was when Larry was desperately ill and Polly Heathcote andPeneluna were nursing him--he was a little boy then, home on avacation. It was because of the woman that neither of them had everknown that they tried to mother the boy--but Larry was difficult, hehad queer streaks. Again Peneluna looked back, back to some of thedifficult streaks. 

Once Larry had stolen! He had gone, too, when quite a child, to thetavern! He had tasted the liquor, made the men laugh! The old doctorhad been in a sad state at that time and Larry had been sent toschool. 

After that, well, Peneluna could not recall Larry distinctly for manyyears. She knew the old doctor clung to him passionately; wentoccasionally to see him, came back troubled; came back looking oldereach time and depending more upon Mary-Clare, whose love and devotioncould smooth the sadness from his face. 

Then that night, the marriage night of Mary-Clare! Peneluna had beennear the old doctor when Larry bent to catch the distorted words thatwere but whispered. She knew, she seemed always to have known, thatLarry had lied; he had _not_ understood anything. 

Peneluna had tried to interfere, but she was always fumbling; shecould patiently wait, but action, with her, was slow. 

And then Maclin! Since Maclin came and bought the mines _and_Larry--oh! what did it all mean? Had things been slumbering, needingonly a touch?

And who was this man at the inn? Was he the Touch? What was going tohappen in this dull, sluggish life of King's Forest?

The night was growing old, old! Peneluna, too, was old and tired. TheHighway was fraught with terrors for her; the ghosts frightened her. They were trying to make her understand what she must _do_, now thatthey had shown her The Way. She must keep the old doctor's son fromMaclin if she could and from the stranger at the inn, if she had need. If trouble came she must defend her own. 

The weary woman nodded; her eyes closed; the Book slipped from her lapand lay like a "light unto her feet. " She had, somehow, got anunderstanding of Larry Rivers: she believed that through his"difficult streaks" Maclin had got a hold upon him; was using him nowfor evil ends. It was for her, for all who loved the old doctor, toshield, at any cost, the doctor's son. That Larry was unworthy did notweigh with Peneluna. Where she gave, she gave with abandon. 

CHAPTER VIII

Aunt Polly came into the living-room of the inn noiselessly, butPeter, at the fireside, opened his eyes. Nothing could have driven himto bed earlier, but he appeared to have been sleeping for hours. 

Polly's glasses adorned the top of her head. This was significant. When she had arrived at any definite conclusion she pushed herspectacles away as though her physical vision and her spiritual wereone and the same. 

"Time, Polly?" Peter yawned. 

"Going on to 'leven. "

"He come in?"

Full well Peter knew that he had not!

"No, Peter, and his evening meal is drying up in the oven--I hadcreamed oysters, too. Creamed oysters are his specials. "

"Scandalous, your goings on with this young man!" Peter sat up andstretched. Then he smiled at his sister. 

"Well, Peter, all my life I've had to take snatches and scraps out ofother folks' lives when I could get them; and I declare I've managedto patch together a real Lady's Delight-pattern sort of quilt tohuddle under when I'm cold and tired. "

"Tired now, Polly?"

"Not exactly tired, brother, but sort of rigid. Feel as if I wasbraced for something. I've often had that feeling. "

"Women! women!" muttered Peter, and threw on another log. 

"What you suppose has happened to keep our young feller from the--theoysters, eh?"

"I'm not accounting for folks or things these days, Peter. I'm justkeeping my eyes and ears open. Jan-an makes me uneasy!" This came likea mild explosion. 

"What's she up to?" Peter sniffed. 

"Land! the poor soul is like the barometer you set such store by. Everything looking clear and peaceful and then suddenlike up she gets, as she did an hour ago, and grabs her truck and sets out forMary-Clare's like she was summoned. Just saying she had to! These arequeer times, brother. I ain't easy in my mind. "

"If Jan-an doesn't calm down, " Peter muttered, "she may have to be putsomewhere, as Larry Rivers once suggested. Larry hasn't many earmarksof his pa--but he may have a sense about human ailments. "

"Think shame of yourself, Peter Heathcote, to let anything LarryRivers says disturb your natural good feelings. Where could we sendJan-an if we wanted to?" Peter declined to reply and Aunt Polly wenton: "Larry isn't living with Mary-Clare, Peter!" she added. This was amore significant explosion. Peter turned and his hair seemed to springan inch higher around his red, puffy face. 

"Where is he living?" he asked. When deeply stirred, Peter went slowand warily. 

"He's hired Peneluna's old shack. "

Peter digested this; but found it chaff. 

"You got this from Jan-an?"

"I got it from her and from Peneluna. Peter, Peneluna looks and actslike one of them queer sort of ancient bodies what used to sit onaltars or something, and make remarks that no one was expected todiffer from. She just dropped in this morning and said that LarryRivers had taken her shack; was paying for it, too. "

"Has, or is going to?" Peter was giving himself time to think. 

"Has!" Aunt Polly was pulling her cushions into the cavities of hertired little body. 

"Damn funny!" muttered Peter and added another log. The heat wasgrowing ferocious. Then, as he eyed his sister: "Better turn in, Polly. You look scrunched. " To look "scrunched" was to lookdesperately exhausted. "No use wearing yourself out for--for folks, "he added with a tenderness in his voice that always brought a peculiarsmile to Polly's eyes. 

"I don't see as there is anything else much, brother, to wear one'sself out for. "

"Why frazzle yourself for anything?"

"Why shouldn't I? What should I be keeping myself for, Peter? Surelynot for my own satisfaction. No. I always hold if folks want me, thenI'm particularly pleased to be had. As to frazzling, seems like weonly frazzle just _so_ far, then a stitch holds and we get ourbreath. "

In this mood Polly worried Peter deeply. He could not keep fromlooking ahead--he avoided that usually--to a time when the little nestat the far end of the sofa would be empty; when the click of knittingneedles would sound no more in the beautiful old room. 

"There's me!" he whispered at length like a half-ashamed butfrightened boy. 

Polly drew her glasses down and gave him a long, straight look full ofa deep and abiding love. 

"You're the stitch, Peter my man, " she whispered back as if fearingsomeone might hear, "always the saving stitch. And take this to bedwith you, brother: the frazzling isn't half so dangerous as dry rot, or moth eating holes in you. Queer, but I was getting to think ofmyself as laid on the shelf before Brace drifted in, and when I dothat I get old-acting and stiff-jointed. But I've noticed that it'sthe same with folks as it is with the world, when they begin toflatten down, then the good Lord drops something into them to make 'emsorter rise. No need to flatten down until you're dead. Feeling tiredis healthy and proper--not feeling at all is being finished. So now, Peter, you just go along to bed. I always have felt that a man hatesto be set up for, but he can overlook a woman doing it; he sets itdown to her general foolishness, but Brace would just naturally getedgy if he found us both up. "

Peter came clumsily across the room and stood over the small creatureon the sofa. He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he said gruffly:

"See that the fire's banked, Polly. Looks as if I'd laid on a powerfullot of wood without thinking. " Then he laughed and went on: "You'redurned comical, Polly. What you said about the Lord putting yeast intofolks and the world _is_ comical. "

"I didn't say yeast, Peter Heathcote. "

"Well, yer meant yeast. "

"No, I didn't mean yeast. I just meant something like Brace wastalking about to-day. "

"What was it?" Peter stood round and solid with the firelight ruddilyupon him. 

"He said that the fighting overseas ain't properly a war, but ageneral upheaval of things that have got to come to the top and beskimmed off. We ain't ever looked at it that way. " Polly resorted tofamiliar similes when deeply affected. 

"I guess all wars is that. " Peter looked serious. He rarely spoke ofthe trouble that seemed far, far from his quiet, detached life, butlately he had shaken his head over it in a new way. "But God ain'tmeaning for us to take sides, Polly. It's like family troubles. Youdon't understand them, and you better keep out. Just think of our goodGerman friends and neighbours. We can't go back on them just 'causetheir kin across the seas have taken to fighting. Our Germans have, soto speak, married in our family, and we must stand by 'em. " Peter wasvoicing his unrest. Polly saw the trouble in his face. 

"Of course, brother, and I only meant that lately so many things arestirring in the Forest that it seems more like the Forest wasn't ascrap set off by itself. I seem to have lots of scraps floating in mymind lately--things I've heard, and all are taking on meaning now. Iremember someone saying, I guess it was the Bishop, that in a drop ofocean water, there was all that went into the ocean's making, exceptsize. That didn't mean anything until Brace set me to--to turning overin my mind, and, Peter, it seems terrible sensible now. All the big, big world is just little scraps of King's Forests welded all togetherand every King's Forest is a drop of the world. "

Peter looked gravely troubled as men often do when their women take tothinking on their own lines. Usually the heedless man dismisses thematter with but small respect, but Peter was not that kind. All hislife he had depended upon his sister's "vision" as he called it. Hemight laugh and tease her, but he never took a definite step withoutreaching out to her. 

"A man must plant his foot solid on the path he knows, " he often said, "but that don't hinder him from lifting his eyes to the sky. " And itwas through Aunt Polly's eyes that Peter caught his view of skies. 

"I don't exactly like Brace digging down into things so much. " Petergave a troubled sigh. "Some things ain't any use when they are dugup. "

"But some things _are_, brother. We must know. "

"Well, by gosh!" Peter began to sway toward the door like a heavilyfreighted side-wheeler. "I get to feeling sometimes as if I'd kickedover a hornet's nest and wasn't certain whether it was a last year'sone or this year's. In one case you can hold your ground, in the otheryou best take to your heels. Well, I'm going to leave you, Polly, foryour date with your young man. Don't forget the fire and don't set uptoo long. "

Left to herself, Polly neatly folded her knitting and stuck theglistening needles through it. She folded her small, shrivelled handsand a radiant smile touched her old face. 

Oh! the luxury of _daring_ to sit up for a man. The excitement of theadventure! And while she waited and brooded, Polly was thinking as shehad never done until recently. All her life she believed that she hadthought, and to suddenly find, as she had lately, that her conclusionswere either wrong or confused made her humble. 

Now there was Mary-Clare! Why, from her birth, Mary-Clare had been anopen book! Poor Polly shook her head. An open book? Well, if so shedid not know the language in which that book was written, forMary-Clare was troubling her now deeply. 

And Larry? Larry had suddenly come into focus, and Maclin, andNorthrup. They all seemed reeling around her; all united, but indeadly peril of being flung apart. 

It was all too much for Aunt Polly and she unrolled her knitting andset the needles to their accustomed task. Eventually Mary-Clare wouldcome to the inn and simply tell her story--full well Polly knew that. It was Mary-Clare's way to keep silent until necessity for silence waspast and then calmly take those she loved into her confidence. Butthere were disturbing things going on. Aunt Polly could not blindherself to them. 

At this moment Northrup's step sounded outside. He came hastily, butmaking little noise. 

"What's up?" he asked, starting back at the sight of Aunt Polly. 

"Just me, son. Your dinner is scorched to nothing, but I wanted totell you where the cookie jar is. "

Northrup came over to the sofa and sat down. 

"You deep and opaque female, " he said, throwing his arm over thelittle bent shoulders. "Own up. It isn't cookies, it's a switch. Whathave I done? Out with it. "

Aunt Polly laughed softly. 

"It's neither cookies nor switches when you come down to it, " shechuckled. "It's just waiting and not knowing why. "

Northrup leaned back against the sofa and said quietly:

"Guessing about me, Aunt Polly?"

"Guessing about everything, son. Just when I thought I was nearingport, where I ought to be at my age, I find myself all at sea. "

"Same with me, Aunt Polly. We're part of the whole upheaval, and takeit from me, some of us are going to find ourselves high and dry by andby and some of us will go under. We don't understand it; we can't; butwe've got to try to--and that's the very devil. Aunt Polly, I've beenon the Point, talking to some of the folks down there--there is afellow called Twombley, odd cuss. He told me he's tried to earn hisliving, but found people too particular. "

"Earn his living, huh!" Polly tried to look indignant. "He's a scamp, and old Doctor Rivers was the ruination of him. The old doctor used toquote Scripture in a scandalous way. He said since we have the pooralways with us, it is up to us to have a place for them where they canbe comfortable. Terrible doctrine, I say, but that was what the olddoctor kept the Point for and it was after Twombley tried to earn hisliving--the scamp!" Northrup saw that he had diverted Aunt Polly andgladly let her talk on. 

"Doctor had an old horse as was just pleading to be put an end to, butthe doctor couldn't make his mind up to it and Twombley finallyundertook to settle the matter with a shot-gun, up back in the hills. Twombley never missed the bull's-eye--a terrible hand with a gun hewas. The doctor gave him two dollars for the job and looked real sickthe day he heard that shot. Well, less than a week after Twombley cameto the doctor and says as how he heard that a horse has to be buriedand that if it isn't the owner gets fined twenty-five dollars, and hesays he'll bury the carcass for five dollars. He explained how thehorse, lying flat, was powerful sizable, and it would be a stern jobto get it under ground. Well, old doctor gave the five dollars andTwombley took to the woods. 

"It was a matter of a month, maybe, when Twombley came back, and soonafter old Philander Sniff appeared with a horse and cart, and DoctorRivers, as soon as he set his eyes on the horse, sent for Twombley. Doyou know, son, that scamp actually figured it out with the doctor asto the cost of food and care he'd been put to in order to get thatshot-and-buried-horse into shape for selling! He'd sold him for tendollars and expenses were twelve. "

Northrup leaned back and laughed until the quiet house reëchoed withhis mirth. 

"Son, son!" cautioned Polly, shaking and dim-eyed, "it's going on tomidnight. We can't carouse like this. But land! it is uplifting tohave a talk when you ought to be sleeping. Well, the old doctorbought the Point just then and bought Twombley a new gun. Folks ascouldn't earn their keep proper naturally drifted to the Point--God'sliving acre, as the doctor called it. "

Northrup rose and stretched his arms and then bent, as Peter had done, to Aunt Polly. But unlike Peter he kissed the small yearning faceupraised to his. 

"It must be pleasant--being your mother, " Polly whispered. 

"It's pleasant having you acting as substitute, " Northrup replied. "Shall I bank the fire, Aunt Polly?"

"No, son, there's something else I must see to before I turn in. Aren't you going for the cookies?"

"Yes'm. Going to munch them in bed. " And tiptoeing away in the mostorthodox manner Northrup left Aunt Polly alone. 

Why was she staying up? She had no clear idea but she was restless, sleepless, and bed, to her, was no comfort under such conditions. However, since she had stated that she had something to do, she mustfind it. She went to a desk in the farther end of the room, and tookfrom it her house-keeping book. She would balance that and surprisePeter! Peter always _was_ so surprised when she did. She bought thebook to her nest on the sofa and set to work. 

Debit and credit. Figures, figures, figures. And then, mistily, wordstook their places. Names. 

Mary-Clare: Larry. 

Larry: Northrup. 

Mary-Clare! It was funny. The columns danced and giddily wobbled--andat the foot there was only--Mary-Clare! Mary-Clare was troubling thedear old soul. 

Then, startled by the falling of the book to the floor, Aunt Pollyopened her eyes and gazed into the face of Mary-Clare standing beforeher!

The girl had a wind-swept look, physically and spiritually. Her hairwas loose about her face, her eyes like stars, and she was smiling. 

"Oh! you dear thing, " she whispered, bending to recover the book, "adding and subtracting when the whole world sleeps. Isn't it awonderful feeling to have the night to yourself?"

Mary-Clare crouched down before the red blazing logs; her coat and hatfell from her and she stretched her hands out to the heat with alittle shiver of luxurious content. 

Aunt Polly knew the girl's mood and left her to herself. She had cometo tell something but must tell it in her own way. To question, tointrude a thought, would only tend to confuse and distract her, soPolly took up her knitting and nodded cheerfully. She had a feelingthat all along she had been waiting for Mary-Clare. 

"I suppose big things like being born and dying are very simple whenthey come. It is the mistaking the big and little things that makes usall so uncertain. Aunt Polly, Larry has left me. " The start had beenmade!

"Yes; Peneluna told us. He hasn't gone far. " Aunt Polly knitted onwhile Mary-Clare gave a little laugh. 

"Oh! dearie, he was far, far away before he started for the Point. Land doesn't count--it's more than that, only I did not know. Isn't itqueer, Aunt Polly, now that I understand things, I find that marryingLarry and having the babies haven't touched me at all--I neverbelonged to them or they to me--except Noreen. And it's queer aboutNoreen, too, she will never seem part of all that. "

Mary-Clare, her eyes fixed on the fire, was thinking aloud; her breathcame short and quick as if she had been running. 

"My dear child!" Aunt Polly was shocked in spite of herself. "No womancan shake off her responsibilities in that way. Larry is your husbandand you have been a mother. "

"You are talking _words_, Aunt Polly, not things. " Aunt Polly knewthat she _was_ and it made her wince. 

"That's the trouble with us all, Aunt Polly. Saying words over andover and calling them things--as if you could take God in!"

There was no bitterness in the tones, but there was the wearyimpatience of a child that had been too often denied the truth. 

"No matter what people say and say, underneath there is _truth_, AuntPolly, and it's up to us to find it. "

"And you think you are competent"--Aunt Polly, reflecting that she wasusing _words_, used them doubtfully--"you think you are competent toknow what _is_ truth and to act upon it--to the extent of sending yourhusband out of his home?"

If a small love-bird could look and sound fierce it would resembleAunt Polly at that moment. Mary-Clare turned from the contemplation ofthe fire and fixed her deep eyes upon the troubled old face. 

"You dear!" she whispered and then laughed. 

Presently, the fire again holding her, Mary-Clare went on:

"I think I must try to find truth with my woman-brain, Aunt Polly. That was what my doctor-daddy always insisted upon. He wouldn't evenlet me take _his_ word when it came to anything that meant a lot tome. "

"He wanted you to marry Larry!"

This was a telling stroke and a long silence followed. Then:

"I wonder, Aunt Polly, I wonder. "

"Do you doubt, child?"

"I don't know, but even if he did he was sick and so--so tired, andLarry always worried him. I know very surely that if my doctor werehere, and knew everything, he'd say harder than ever: 'Use yourwoman-mind. ' And I'm going to! Why, Aunt Polly, I haven't driven Larryaway from his home. I meant to make it a better place, once I set thewrong aside. But you see, he wanted it just _his_ way and nothing elsewould do. "

The dear old face that had confronted life vicariously flushed gently;but the young face that had set itself to the stern facts of lifeshowed neither weakness nor doubt. 

"It has come to me, dear"--Mary-Clare now turned and came close toAunt Polly, resting her folded arms on the thin little knees--"It hascome to me, dear, that things are not fixed right and when they arenot, it won't do any good to keep on acting as if they were. Beingmarried to Larry could never make it right for me to do what seems tome wrong. And oh! Aunt Polly, I wish that I could make you understand. Do try to understand, dear, there is a sacred place in my soul, and Ijust do believe it is in all women's souls if they dared to sayso--that no one, not even a husband, has a right to claim. It is hersand--God's. But men don't know, and some don't care--and they justrush along and take and take, never counting what it may cost--andthey make laws to help them when they might fail without, and--well, Aunt Polly, it is hard to stand all alone in the world. I think thereally happy women are those who don't know what I mean, or those thathave loved enough, loved a man true enough--to share that sacred placewith him--the place he ought not ask for or have a law for. I know youdo not understand, Aunt Polly. I did not myself until Peneluna toldme. "

At this Aunt Polly braced against the pillows as if they were rocks. 

"Peneluna!" she gasped. 

"Let me tell you, Aunt Polly. It is such a wonderful thing. "

As she might have spoken to Noreen, so Mary-Clare spoke now to thewoman who had only viewed life as Moses had the Promised Land, fromher high mount. 

"And so, can you not see, dear Aunt Polly, it isn't a thing that lawscan touch; it isn't being good or bad--it is too big a Thing to callby name. Peneluna could starve and still keep it. She could be lonelyand serve, but she _knew_. I don't love Larry, I cannot help it. Allmy life I am going to keep all of the promise I can, Aunt Polly, butI'm going to--to keep myself, too! A woman can give a man a gooddeal--but she can't give him some things if she tries to! Look at thewomen; some of them in the Forest. Aunt Polly, if marriage means whatthey look like----" Mary-Clare shuddered. 

Aunt Polly had suddenly grown tender and far-seeing. She let go thesounding words that Church and State had taught her. 

"Little girl, " she said, and all her motherhood rushed forward toseize, as it had ever done, those "scraps" of others' lives, "supposethe time should come when there would be in your life another--someonebesides Larry? Why has all this come so sudden to you?"

Northrup seemed to loom in the room, just beyond the fire's glow. Herfear was taking shape. 

"Oh! dearie, I might then ask Larry to release me from my promise. Mydoctor used to say one could do that, but if he would not, why, then--I'd keep my bargain as far as I could. But----" and hereMary-Clare rose and flung her arms above her head. The action wasjubilant, majestic. "Oh! the wonder of it all; to be free to be myselfand prove what I _think_ is right without having to take another'sidea of it. I'll listen; I'll try to understand and be patient--but itcannot be wrong, Aunt Polly, the thing I've done--since this greatfeeling of wings has come to me instead of heavy feet! Why, dear, Iwant something more than--than the things women _think_ are theirs. Wedon't know what is ours until we try. "

"And fail, my child?" Aunt Polly was crying. 

"Yes; and fail sometimes and be hurt--but paying and going on. "

"And leaving your man behind you?"

"Aunt Polly"--Mary-Clare looked down upon the kind, quivering face--"awoman's man cannot be left behind. He'll be beside her somehow. If shestays back, as I've tried to do, she wouldn't be his woman! That's thedreadful trouble with Larry and me. But, dearie, it isn't always a manin a woman's life. "

"But the long, lonely way, child!" Polly was retracing her own deniedwomanhood. 

"It need not be lonely, dear, when we women find--other things. Theywill count. They must. "

"What other things, Mary-Clare?"

"That's what we must be finding out, dear. Love; the man: some daythey will be the glory, making everything more splendid, but not--theall. I think I should have died, Aunt Polly, had I kept on. "

Like an inspired young oracle, Mary-Clare spoke and then dropped againby the fire. 

"I've somehow learned all this, " she whispered, "in my Place up on thehill. It just came to me, little by little, until it convinced me. Ihad to tell Larry the truth. "

"Mary-Clare, I do not know; I don't feel able to put it into words, but I do believe you're going to make sad trouble for yourself, child. Such a thing as this you have done has never been done before in theForest. "

"Maybe. "

A door upstairs slammed loudly and both women started nervously. 

"I must tell Peter to fix the latch of the attic door to-morrow, " AuntPolly said, relieved to be back on good, plain, solid ground. "Theattic winders are raised and the wind's rising. It will be slam, slamall night, unless----" she rose quickly. 

"Just a minute, Aunt Polly, I'm so tired. Please let me lie here onthe couch and rest for an hour and then I'll slip home. "

"Let me put you to bed properly, child. You look suddenly beat flat. That's the way with women. They get to thinking they've got wings whenthey ain't, child, they ain't. You're making a terrible break in yourlife, child. Terrible. "

Mary-Clare was arranging the couch. 

"Come, dear, " she wheedled, "you tuck me up--so! I'll bank the firewhen I go and leave everything safe. A little rest and thento-morrow!--well, you'll see that I have wings, Aunt Polly; they areonly tired now--for they are new wings! I know that it must seem allmadness, but it had to come. "

Aunt Polly pulled the soft covering over the huddled form--only thepale, wistful face was presently to be seen; the great, haunting eyesmade Aunt Polly catch her breath. She bent and kissed the forehead. 

"Poor, reaching-out child!" she whispered. 

"For something that is _there_, Aunt Polly. "

"God knows!"

"Of course He does. That's why He gave us the--reach. Good-night. Oh!how I love you, Aunt Polly. Good-night!"

It was Northrup's door that had slammed shut. Aunt Polly went above, secured the innocent attic door, and then pattered down to her bedroomnear Peter's, feeling that her house, at least, was safe. 

It was silent at last. Northrup, in his dark chamber, lay awakeand--ashamed, though heaven was his witness that his sin was not onehe had planned. Aunt Polly had been on his mind. He hated to have herdown there alone. Her sitting up for him had touched and--disturbedhim; he had left his door ajar. 

"I'll listen for a few minutes and if she doesn't go to bed, I'll godown and shake her, " he concluded, and then promptly went to sleep andwas awakened by voices. Low, earnest voices, but he heard no words andwas sleepily confused. If he thought anything, he thought Peter hadbeen doing what was needed to be done--driving Polly to bed!

And then Northrup _did_ hear words. A word here; a word there. He_knew_ things he had no right to know--he was awake at last, conscientiously, as well as physically. He got up and slammed thedoor!

But he could not go to sleep. He felt hot and cold; mean andindignant--but above all else, tremendously excited. He lay still alittle longer and then opened his door in time to hear that"good-night, good-night"; and presently Aunt Polly's raid on theunoffending attic door at the other end of the corridor and herpattering feet on their way, at last, to her bedchamber. 

"She's forgot to bank the fire. " Northrup could see the glow from hispost and remembered Uncle Peter's carefulness. "I'll run down and makethings safe and lock the door. " Northrup still held his respect fordoors. 

In heavy gown and soft slippers he noiselessly descended. Theliving-room at the far end was dark; the fire glowed at the other, dangerously, and one threatening log had rolled menacingly to thefore. 

Bent upon quick action Northrup silently crossed the floor, graspedthe long poker and pushed the blazing wood back past the safety lineand held it there. 

His face burned, but there was a hypnotic lure in that bed of redcoals. All that he had just heard--a disjointed and rather dramaticrevealment--was having a peculiar effect upon him. He had become awareof some important facts that accounted for things, such as Rivers'sappearance on the Point. He had attributed that advent to Maclin'ssecret business; but it was, evidently, quite different. 

What had occurred in the yellow house before the final break?Northrup's imagination came to the fore fully equipped. Northrup was aman of the herd--at least he had been, until lately. He knew thetracks of the herd and its laws and codes. 

"The brute!" he muttered under his breath; "and that kind of a girl, too. Nothing is too fine for some devils to appropriate and--smirch. Poor little girl!"

And then Northrup recalled Mary-Clare as he had seen her that day asshe emerged from the woods to meet him and her child. The glory ofPeneluna's story was in her soul, the autumn sunlight on her face. That lovely, smiling, untouched face of hers! Again and again thatmemory of her held his fancy. 

"The cursed brute--hasn't _got_ her, thank God. She's out of thetrap. "

And, all unconsciously, while this moral indignation had its way, Northrup was drawing nearer to Mary-Clare; understanding her, appropriating her! God knew he meant no wrong. After all she hadsuffered he wasn't going to mess her life more--but he'd somehow makeup to her what she'd a perfect right to. All men were not low andbestial. He had a duty--he would be above the touch of idle chatter;he would take a hand in the game!

And just then Northrup, controlled by the force of attraction, turnedhis head and looked at the face of Mary-Clare upon the couch nearhim!

In all his life Northrup had never looked upon the face of a sleepingwoman, and it stirred him deeply. He became as rigid as marble; theheat beat upon him as it might have upon stone. And then--as such wildthings do occur, his old, familiar dream came to him; he seemed _in_the dream. He had at last opened one of those closed doors and wasseeing what the secret room held! He was part of the dream as he wasof his book in the making. 

He breathed lightly; he did not move--but he was overcome by waves ofemotion that had never before even lapped his feet. 

At that instant Mary-Clare's eyes opened. For a moment they held his;then she turned, sighed, and he believed that she had not reallyawakened. 

Northrup rose stiffly and made his way to his room. 

"She was asleep!" he fiercely thought until he was safe behind hislocked door!

"Was she?" He had to face that in the silence of the hours after. "I'll know when I next meet her. " This was almost a groan. 

CHAPTER IX

Kathryn Morris, as the days of Northrup's absence stretched intoweeks, grew more and more restless. She began to do some seriousthinking, and while this developed her mentally, the growing painshurt and she became twisted. 

Heretofore she had been borne along on a peaceful current. She wasyoung and pretty and believed that everyone saw her as she wanted themto see her--a charming, an unusually charming girl. 

People had always responded to her slightest whim, but suddenly herown particular quarry had eluded her; did not even pine for her; wasable to keep silent while he left her and his mother to think whatthey chose. 

At this moment Kathryn placed herself beside Helen Northrup as a timiddébutante shrinks beside her chaperon. 

"And that old beast"--Kathryn in the privacy of her bedchamber couldspeak quite openly to herself--"that old beast, Doctor Manly, suggested that at forty I might be fat if----" Well, it didn't matterabout the "if. " Kathryn did a bit of mental arithmetic, using herfingers to aid her. What was the difference between twenty-four andforty? The difference seemed terrifyingly _little_. "A fat forty! Oh, good Lord!"

Kathryn was in bed and it was nine-thirty in the morning! She sprangout and looked at herself in the mirror. 

"Well, my body hasn't found it out yet!" she whispered, and her prettywhite teeth showed complacently. 

Then she sat down in a deep chair and took account of stock. That"fat-forty" was a mere panic. She would not think of it--but itloomed, nevertheless. 

Of course, for the time being, there was Sandy Arnold on the crest ofone of his financial waves. 

Kathryn was level-headed enough not to lose sight of receding wavesbut then, on the other hand, the crest of a receding wave was betterthan to be left on the sands--fat and forty! And Northrup wasdisplaying dangerous traits. A distinct chill shook Kathryn. 

She turned her thought to Northrup. Northrup had seemed safe. Hebelonged to all that was familiar to her. He would be famous someday--that she might interfere with this never occurred to the girl. She simply saw herself in a gorgeous studio pouring tea or dancing, and all the people paying court to her while knowing that they oughtto be paying it to Northrup. 

"But he always gets a grubby hole to work in. " Kathryn fidgeted. "Idaresay he is working now in some smudgy old place. "

But this thought did not last. She could insist upon the studio. A manowes his wife _something_ if he will have his way about his job. 

Just at this point a tap on the door brought a frown to Kathryn'ssmooth forehead. 

"Oh! come in, " she called peevishly. 

A drab-coloured woman of middle age entered. She was one of theindividuals so grateful for being noticed at all that her cheerfulnesswas a constant reproach. She had been selected by Kathryn's father toact as housekeeper and chaperon. As the former she was a gratifyingsuccess; as the latter, a joke and one to be eliminated as much aspossible. 

For the first time in years Kathryn regarded her aunt now withinterest. 

"Aunt Anna"--Kathryn never indulged in graceful tact with herrelations--"Aunt Anna, how old _are_ you?"

Anna Morris coloured, flinched, but smiled coyly. 

"Forty-two, dear, but it was only yesterday that my dressmaker saidthat I should not tell that. It is not necessary, you know. "

"I suppose not!" Kathryn was regarding the fatness of the woman whowas calmly setting the disorderly room to rights. "Aunt Anna, whydidn't you marry?"

The dull, fat face was turned away. Anna Morris never lost sight ofthe fact that when Kathryn married she would face a stern situationunless Kathryn proved kinder than any one had any reason to expect herto be. So her remarks were guarded. 

"Oh! my dear, my dear, _what_ a question. Well, to be quite frank, Idiscovered at eighteen that some men could stir my senses"--AnnaMorris tittered--"and some couldn't. At twenty-two the only man whocould stir me was horribly poor; the other stirring ones had beensnapped up. You see, there was no one to help me with my affairs. Your father never _did_ understand. The only thing he was keen aboutwas making money enough to marry your mother. Then you were born andyour mother died and--well, there was nothing for me to do but comehere and help him out. One has plain duties. I always had senseenough"--Anna Morris moved about heavily--"to realize that senses donot stir when poverty pinches, and this house _was_ comfortable; andduty _can_ fill in chinks. I always contend"--the dull eyes nowconfronted Kathryn--"that there _is_ a dangerous age for men andwomen. If they get through that alive and alone--well, there is akind of calm that comes. "

"I suppose so. " Kathryn felt a sinking in the region of the heart. "Are you ever lonely?" she asked suddenly. "Ever feel that you letyour own life slip when you helped Father and me?"

Anna Morris's lips trembled as they always did when any one was kindto her; but she got control of herself at once--she could not affordthe comfort of letting herself go!

"Oh, I don't know. Yes; sometimes. But who isn't lonely at times?Marriage can't prevent that and even your own private life, quite yourown, is bound to have some lonely spells. There are all kinds ofhusbands. Some float about, heaven knows where; their wives must belonely; and then the settled sort--dear me! I've often seen womenterribly lonely right in the rooms with their husbands. I have cometo the conclusion that once you pass the dangerous age you're as wellplaced one way as another. That is, if you are a woman. "

Kathryn was looking unusually serious. While she was in this mood sheclutched at seeming trifles and held them curiously. 

"What was Brace's father like?" she suddenly asked. 

Anna Morris started. 

"Why, what ails you, Kathie?" she asked suspiciously. "You've nevertaken any interest before. Why should you? A young girl and allthat--why should you?"

"Tell me, Aunt Anna. I've often wondered. "

Anna Morris sat down heavily in a chair. The older Northrup had oncehad power to stir her; was one of the men too poor for her toconsider. 

"Well, " she began slowly, tremblingly, "he wasn't companionable atthe last, but I shall always see _his_ side. Helen Northrup is afine woman--I can understand how many take her part, but beingmarried to her kind must seem like mental Mormonism. _She_ callsit developing--but a man like Thomas Northrup married a womanbecause she was the kind he wanted and he couldn't be expected tokeep trace of all the kinds of women Helen Northrup ran intoand--out of!"

"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Anna. Do talk sense. "

Kathryn was almost excited. It was like reading what wasn't intendedfor innocent young girls to know. 

"Well, first, Helen Northrup was just like all loving young girls, Iguess--but when she didn't find _all_ she wanted, she took todeveloping, as she called it. For _my_ part I believe when a womanfinds her husband isn't _all_ she expected, she ought to accept herlot and make the best of it. "

"And Brace's mother started out to make her own lot? I see. "

Kathryn nodded her head. 

"Well, something like that. She took to writing. Thomas Northrupdidn't know what ailed her and I don't wonder. She should have spentherself on _his_ career, not making one for herself. But I must saywhen Brace was born she stopped that nonsense but she evolved theninto a mother!" Anna sniffed. "A man can share with his children, butwhen it comes to giving up everything, well!"

"What did he do, Aunt Anna?"

"He went away. "

"With a woman?"

"Yes. "

"One he just met when Mrs. Northrup became a mother?"

"He knew her before, but if Helen Northrup had been all she shouldhave been to him----"

"I begin to see. And then?"

"Well, then he died and proved how noble he was at heart. When he wentoff, Helen Northrup wouldn't take a cent. She had a little of her ownand she went to work and Brace helped when he grew older--and thenwhen Thomas Northrup died he left almost all his fortune to his wife. He never considered her anything else. I call his a really greatnature. " Poor Anna was in a trembling and ecstatic state. 

"I call him a--just what he was!" Kathryn was weary of the subject. "Ithink Brace's mother was a fool to let him off so easy. I would havebled him well rather than to let the other woman put it all over me. "

"My dear, that's not a proper way for you to talk!" Aunt Anna becamethe chaperon. "Come, get dressed now, dearie. There's the luncheon, you know. "

"What luncheon?"

"Why, with Mr. Arnold, my dear, and he included me, too! Such a sweetfellow he is, and so wise and thoughtful. "

"Oh!"

There had been a time when she and Sandy Arnold met clandestinely--itwas such fun! He included Aunt Anna now. Why?

And just then, as if it were a live and demanding thing, her eyes fellon Northrup's last book. She scowled at it. It was a horrible book. All about dirty, smudgy people that you couldn't forget and who keptspringing out on you in the most unexpected places. At dinners andluncheons they often wedged in with their awful eyes fixed on yourplate and made you choke. They probably were not true. And thosethings Brace said! Besides, if they were true, people like that wereused to them--they had never known anything else!

And then Brace had said some terrible things about war; that war goingon over the sea. Of course, no one expected to have a war, but it wasunpatriotic for any one to say what Brace had about those perfectlydear officers at West Point and--what was it he said?--oh, yes--havingthe blood of the young on one's soul and settling horrid things, likemoney and land, with lives. 

At this Kathryn tossed the book aside and it fell at Anna's feet. Shepicked it up and handled it as if it were a tender baby that hadbumped its nose. 

"It must be perfectly wonderful, " she said, smoothing the book, "tohave an autographed copy of a novel. It's like having a lock ofsomeone's hair. Where _is_ Brace, Kathryn?"

This was unfortunate. 

"That is my business and his!" Kathryn spoke slowly. Her eyes slantedand her lips hardened. 

"My darling, I beg your pardon!" And once more Anna Morris was shovedinto the groove where she belonged. 

Later that day, after the luncheon with Sandy--Anna had beeneliminated by a master stroke that reduced her to tears and left Sandya victim to Kathryn's wiles--Kathryn called upon Helen Northrup. 

She was told by the smiling little maid to go up into the Workshop. This room was a pitiful attempt to lure Brace to work at home; in hisabsence Helen sat there and scribbled. She wrote feeble little verseswith a suggestion of the real thing in them. Sometimes they gotpublished because the suggestion caught the attention of a sympatheticpublisher, and these small recognitions kept alive a spark that wasall but extinguished when Helen Northrup chose, as women of her timedid, a profession or--the woman's legitimate sphere!

There had been no regret in Helen's soul for whatever part she playedin her own life--her son was her recompense for any disappointment shemight have met, and he was, she devoutly believed, her interpreter. She loved to think in her quiet hours that her longings andaspirations had found expression in her child; she had sought, always, to consider his interests wisely--unselfishly, of course--and leavehim as free to live his own life as though she were not the lonely, disillusioned woman that she was. 

She had never known how early Brace had understood the conditions inhis home--mothers and fathers rarely do. Only once during his boyhoodhad Brace ventured upon the subject over which he spent many confusedand silent hours. 

When he was fourteen he remarked, in that strained voice that hebelieved hid any emotion:

"I say, Mother, a lot of fellows at our school have fathers andmothers who live apart--most of the fellows side with their mothers!"

These words nearly made Helen ill. She could make no reply. She lookeddumbly at the boy facing her with a new and awful revealment. Sheunderstood that he wanted her to _know_, wanted to comfort her; andshe knew, with terrifying certainty, that she could not deceivehim--she was at his mercy!

She was wise enough to say nothing. But after that she felt hissuddenly acquired strength. It was shown in his tenderness, hischeerfulness, his companionship, and, thank God! in his silence. 

But while Helen gloried in her boy she still was loyal to thetraditions of marriage, and her little world never got behind herscreen. She had divorced her husband because he desired it--then shewent on alone. When her husband died away from home, his body wasbrought to her. It had been his last request and she paid all respectto it with her boy close beside her. And then she forgot--really, inmost cases--the things that she had been remembering. She erected overher dead husband, not a stone, but a living _unreality_. It answeredthe purpose for which it was designed; it made it possible for her tolive rather a full life, be a comrade to her son--a friend indeed--andto share all his joys and many of his confidences, and to impress uponhim, so she trusted, that he must not sacrifice anything for her. 

Why should he, indeed? Had she not interests enough to occupy her? Thesight of a widowed mother draining the life-blood from her childrenhad always been a dreadful thing to Helen Northrup, and so well hadshe succeeded in her determination to leave Brace free that thesubject rarely came into the minds of either. 

But Brace's latest move had disturbed Helen not a little. It startledher, made her afraid, as that remark of his in his school days haddone. Did he chafe under ties that he loved but found that he mustflee from for awhile? Why did he and Kathryn not marry? Were theyconsidering her? Was she blinded?

Helen had been going over all this for days before the visit ofKathryn, and during the night preceding the call she had awakened ingreat pain; she had had the pain before and it had power to reduce herto cowardice. It seemed to dare her, while she lay and suffered, toconfide in a physician!

There was an old memory of one who had suffered and died from----"Findout the truth about me!" each dart of fire in the nerves cried, andwhen the pain was over Helen Northrup had not dared to meet thechallenge and go to Manly or another! At first she tried to reasonwith herself; then she compromised. 

"After all, it is so fleeting. I'll rest, take better care of myself. I'm not so young as I was--Nature is warning me; it may not be theother. "

Well, rest and care helped and the attacks were less frequent. Thatgave a certain amount of hope. 

When Kathryn entered the Workshop she found Helen on the couch insteadof at the flat-topped desk. She looked very white and blue-lipped butshe was smiling and happily glad to see her visitor. She was extremelyfond of Kathryn. Early in life she had prepared herself to accept andlove any woman her son might choose--she would never question the gifthe offered! But when Kathryn was offered, she was overjoyed. Kathrynwas part of the dear, familiar life; the daughter of old friends. Helen Northrup felt that she was blessed beyond all mothers. Thething, to her, seemed so exactly right. That the marriage did not takeplace had hardly disturbed her. Kathryn was young, Brace was winning, not only a home for the girl, but honour, and there was always time. _Time_ is such a splendid heritage of youth and such a rare relic ofage. 

"Why, my dearie-dear!" exclaimed Kathryn, kneeling beside the couch. "What _is_ it?"

"Nothing, dear child; nothing more than a vicious touch of neuralgia. "

"Have you seen Doctor Manly?" Kathryn patted the pillows and soothed, by her touch, the hot forehead. Kathryn had the gift of healing in hersmall, smooth hands, but not in her soul. 

She had always been jealous of the love between Brace and his mother. It was so unusual, so binding, so beyond her conception; but she couldhide her feelings until by and by. 

"Now, dearie-dear, we _must_ send for Doctor Manly. Of course Braceought to know. He would never forgive us if he did not know. I hate totrouble you but, my dear, you look simply terrifyingly ill. " Like alightning flash Kathryn's nimble wits caught a possibility. 

Helen smiled. Then spoke slowly:

"Now, my dear, when Brace comes home, I promise to see Doctor Manly. These attacks are severe--but they pass quickly and there are longperiods when I am absolutely free from them. "

"You mean, you have attacks?" Kathryn looked appalled. 

"Oh, yes; off and on. That fact proves how unimportant they are. "

Kathryn was again taking stock. 

She believed that Brace was still at that place from which the lettercame! She was fiendishly subject to impressions and suspicions. 

"Now if he is still there"--thoughts ran like liquid fire in Kathryn'sbrain--"_why_ does he stay? It isn't far. " She had made sure of thatby road maps when the letter first came. "I could motor out there andsee!" The liquid fire brought colour to the girl's face. 

She was dramatic, too, she could always see herself playing theleading parts in emotional situations. Just now, like more flashes oflightning, disclosing vivid scenes, she saw herself, prostrated byfear and anxiety for Helen Northrup, finding Brace, confiding in himbecause she dared not take the chances of silence and dared notdisobey and go to Doctor Manly. 

Brace would be fear-filled and remorseful, would see at last how she, Kathryn, had his interests in mind. He would cling to her. Sittingclose by the couch, her face pressed to Helen Northrup's shoulder, Kathryn contemplated the alluring and passionate scenes. Brace hadalways lacked passion. She had always to hold Arnold virtuously incheck, but Brace was able to control himself. But--and here the vividpictures reeled on, familiarity had dulled things, long engagementswere flattening--Brace would at last see her as she was. She'd forgiveanything that might have happened--of course, anything _might_ havehappened--she, a woman of the world, understood. 

And--Kathryn was brought to a sudden halt--the reel spun on but therewas no picture!

Suppose, after all, there was nothing really to be frightened about inthese attacks? Well, that would be found out after Brace had beenbrought home and might enhance rather than detract from--her divinedevotion. 

Presently Kathryn became aware of the fact that Helen Northrup hadbeen speaking while the reel reeled!

"And then that escapade of his when he was only seven. " Helen pattedthe golden head beside her while her thoughts were back with her boy. "He was walking with me when suddenly he looked up; his poor littleface was all twisted! He just said rather impishly, 'I'm going! I amreally!' and he went! I was, naturally, frightened, and ran afterhim--then, when I caught sight of him, a long way ahead, I stopped andwaited. When he thought I was not following, he waded right out into apuddle; he even had a scrappy fight with a bigger boy who contestedhis right to invade the puddle. It was so absurd. Kathryn, I actuallywent home; I felt sure Brace would find his way back and he did. I wasnearly wild with anxiety, but I waited. He came back disgustinglydirty, but hilariously happy. He expected punishment. When none wasmeted out to him--he told me all about it--it seemed flat enough whenhe saw how I took it. Why, I never even mentioned the mud on him. Hewas disappointed, but I think he understood more than I realized. Whenhe went to bed that night, he begged my pardon!"

Kathryn got up and walked about the room. She was staging anotherdrama. Brace was now playing in puddles--not such simple ones as thoseof his childhood. He was having his little fight, too, possibly; withwhom?

Well, how perfectly thrilling to save him!

Such a girl as Kathryn has as cheap an imagination as any luridfactory girl, but it is kept as safely from sight as the contents ofher vanity bag. 

"Kathryn, have you heard from Brace?"

The girl started almost guiltily. Helen hated to ask this, she fearedKathryn might think her envious; but Kathryn rose and drew a chair tothe couch. 

"No, dearie-dear, " she said sweetly. 

"So you don't know just where he is?"

"How could I know, dearie thing?"

So they were not keeping things from her; shutting her out! HelenNorthrup raised her head from the pillow. 

"We're in the same boat, darling, " she said, so glad to be in the sameboat. "Lately I've had a few whim-whams. " Helen felt she could beconfidential. "I suppose I am touching the outer circle of old age, and before it blinds me, I'm going to have my say. It would be justlike you and Brace to forget yourselves and think of me. And if I donot look out, I'll be taking your sacrifice and calling it by itswrong name. You and Brace must marry. I half believe you've beenwaiting for me to push you out of the nest. Well, here you go! Yourown nest will be sacred to me, another place for me to go to, anotherinterest. I'll be having you both closer. Now, don't cry, little girl. I've found you out and found myself, too!"

Kathryn was shedding tears--tears of gratitude for the material Helenwas putting at her disposal. 

"My dear little Kathryn! It is going to be all right, all right. Why, childie, when he comes home I am going to insist upon the wedding. Iam not a young woman, really, though I put up a bit of a bluff--andthe time isn't very long, no matter how you look at it--so, darling, you and Brace must humour me, do the one big thing to make mehappy--you must be married!"

Kathryn looked up. The tears hung to her long lashes. 

"You want this?" she faltered with quivering lips. 

Helen believed she understood at last. 

"My darling!" she said tenderly, "it is the one great longing of myheart. "

Then she dropped back on her pillow and closed her eyes while the paingripped her. But the pain, for a moment, seemed a friend, not a foe. It might be the thing that would open the door--out. 

Helen had spoken truth as truth should be but never quite is, to amother. She had taken her place in the march, her colours flying. Buther place was the mother's place, lagging in the rear. 

Such an effort as she had just made caused angels to weep over her. 

CHAPTER X

By a kind of self-hypnotism Northrup had gained his ends so far asdrifting with the slow current of King's Forest was concerned, and inhis relation toward his book. The unrest, as to his duty in aworld-wide sense, was lulled. Whatever of that sentiment moved him wasfocussed on Maclin who, in a persistent, vague way became a hauntingpossibility of danger almost too preposterous to be consideredseriously. Still the possibility was worth watching. Maclin's attitudetoward Northrup was interesting. He seemed unable to ignore him, whileearnestly desiring to do so. The fact was this: Maclin looked uponNorthrup as he might have upon a slow-burning fuse. That he could notestimate the length of the fuse, nor to what it was attached, did notmend matters. One cannot ignore a trail of fire, and a guiltyconscience is never a sleeping one. 

The people on the Point had long since come to the conclusion thatNorthrup was a trailer of Maclin, not their enemy. The opinion wasdivided as to his relations with Mary-Clare, but that was a differentmatter. 

"I'll bet my last dollar, " Twombley muttered, forgetting that his lastdollar was a thing of the past, "that this young feller will find outabout those inventions. Inventions be damned! That's what I say. There's something going on at the mines that don't spell inventions. "

This was said to Peneluna who was aging under the strain ofunaccustomed excitement. 

"When he lands Maclin, " she said savagely, "I'll grab Larry. Larry isa fool, but from way back, Maclin is the sinner. Queer"--she gave adeep sigh--"how a stick muddling up a biling brings the scum to thesurface! I declare! I wish we had something to grip hold of. Suspicioning your neighbours ain't healthy. "

Jan-an, untroubled by moral codes, was unconditionally on Northrup'sside. She patched her gleanings into a vivid conclusion and announced, much to Peneluna's horror:

"Supposin' we are goin' ter hell 'long of not knowin' where we aregoin', ain't it a lot pleasanter than the way we was traipsin' beforethings began to happen?"

Poor Jan-an was getting her first taste of romance and tragedy and shewas thriving on the excitement. When she was not watching the romancein the woods with Mary-Clare and Noreen, she was actively engaged intragedy. She was searching for the lost letters and she did not mincematters in her own thoughts. 

"Larry stole 'em!" she had concluded from the first. "What's oldletters, anyway? But I'll get those letters if I die for it!"

She shamelessly ransacked Larry's possessions while she cleaned hisdisorderly shack, but no letters did she find. She became irritableand unmoral. 

"Lordy!" she confided to Peneluna one day while they were preparingLarry's food, "don't yer wish, Peneluna, that it wasn't evil to poisonsome folks' grub?"

Peneluna paused and looked at the girl with startled eyes. 

"If you talk like that, " she replied, "I'll hustle you into thealmshouse. " Then: "Who would you like to do that to?" she asked. 

"Oh! folks as just clutter up life for decent folks. Maclin andLarry. "

"Now, see here, Jan-an, that kind of talk is downright creepy andterrible wicked. Listen to me. Are you listening?"

Jan-an nodded sullenly. 

"I'm your best friend, child. I mean to stand by yer, so you justheed. There are folks as can use language like that and others willlaugh it off, but you can't do it. The best thing for you to do is toslip along out of sight and sound as much as yer can. If you attractattention--the Lord above knows what will happen; I don't. "

Jan-an was impressed. 

"I ain't making them notice me, " she mumbled, "but yer just can't takea joke. "

Noreen and Jan-an, in those warm autumn days--and what an autumn itwas!--often came to the little chapel where Northrup wrote. 

They knew this was forbidden; they knew that the mornings were to beundisturbed, but what could a man who loved children say to the twopatient creatures crouching at the foot of the stone steps leading upto the church?

Northrup could hear them whisper--it blended with the twitteringof the birds--he heard Noreen's chuckle and Jan-an's warning. Occasionally a flaming maple branch would fall through the windowon to his table; once Ginger was propelled through the door with anote, badly printed by Noreen, tied to his collar. 

"We're here, " the strangely scrawled words informed him; "me andJan-an. We've got something for you. "

But Northrup held rigidly to his working hours and finally made anoffer to his most persistent foes. 

"See here, you little beggars, " he said, including the gaunt Jan-an inthis, "if you keep to the other side of the bridge, I'll tell you astory, once a day. "

This had been the beginning of romance to Jan-an. 

The story-telling, thus agreed upon, opened a new opportunity formeeting Mary-Clare. Quite naturally she shared with Noreen and Jan-anthe hours of the late afternoon walks in the woods or, occasionally, by the fireside of her own home when the chilly gloaming fell early. 

Often Northrup, casting a hurried thought to his past, and thenforward to the time when all this pleasure must end, lookedthoughtful. How circumscribed those old days had been; how uneventfulat the best! How strange the old ways would seem by and by, touched bythe glamour of what he was passing through now!

And, as was often the case, Manly's words came out like guiding andwarning flashes. The future could only be made safe by the present;the past--well! Northrup would not dwell upon that. He would keep thecompact with himself. 

He went boldly to the yellow house when the mood seized him. His firstencounters with Mary-Clare, after that night at the inn when he hadwatched her sleeping, had reassured him. 

"She was not awake!" he concluded. The belief made it possible for himto act with assurance. 

Peter and Polly preserved a discreet silence concerning affairs in theForest. "You never can tell when a favouring wind will right thingsagain, " Polly remarked. She cared more for Mary-Clare than anythingelse. 

"Or upset 'em, " Peter added. He had his mind fixed upon Maclin. 

"Well, brother, sailing safe, or struggling in the water, it won'thelp matters to stir up the mud. "

"No; and just having Brace hanging around like a threat is something. I allas did hold to them referendum and recall notions. Once a fellerknows he ain't the only shirt in the laundry, he keeps decenter. Solong as Maclin scents Brace, he keeps to his holdings. Did yer hearhow he's cleaning up the Cosey Bar? He thinks maybe he's going to beattacked from that quarter. Then, again, he's been offering work tothe men around here--and he's letting out that he never understood ourside of things rightly and that he's listening to Larry--get that, Polly?--listening to Larry and letting _him_ make the folks on thePoint get on to the fact that he's their friend. Gosh! Maclin theirfriend. "

And Mary-Clare all this time mystified her friends and her foes. Shehad foes. Men, and women, too, who looked askance at her. The lessthey knew, the more they had to invent. The proprieties of the Forestwere being outraged. The women who envied Mary-Clare her daring fellupon her first. From their own misery and disillusionment, they soughtto defend their position; create an atmosphere of virtue around theirbarren lives, by attacking the woman who refused to be a martyr. 

"You can't tell me, " said a downtrodden wife of one of Maclin's men, "that she turned her husband out of doors after wheedling him out ofall he should have had from his father, unless she meant to leave thedoor open for another! A woman only acts as she has for some man. "

The women, the happy ones, drove down upon Mary-Clare from anotherquarter. The happy women are always first to lay down the laws for theunhappy ones. Not knowing, they are irresponsible. The men of theForest did some laughing and side talking, but on the whole theydenounced Mary-Clare because she was a menace to the EstablishedCode. 

"God!" said the speaker of the Cosey Bar, "what's coming to the world, anyhow? There ain't any rest and peace nowheres, and when it comes towomen taking to naming terms, I say it's time for us to stand for ourrights fierce. "

Maclin had delicately and indirectly set forth Mary-Clare's "terms"and the Forest was staggered. 

But Mary-Clare either did not hear, or the turmoil was so insistentthat she had become used to it. She suddenly displayed an energy thatmade her former activities seem tame. 

She brought from the attic an old loom and got Aunt Polly to teach herto weave; she presently designed quaint patterns and delighted in herwork. She invited several children, neglected little souls, to come tothe yellow house and she taught them with Noreen. She resorted largelyto the method the old doctor had used with her. Adapting, as she sawpossible, her knowledge to her little group, she gave generously butheld her peace. 

Northrup often had a hearty laugh after attending one of the "school"sessions. 

"It's like tossing all kinds of feed to a flock of birds, " he toldAunt Polly, "and letting the little devils pick as they can. "

"I reckon they pick only as much as their little stomachs can hold, "Aunt Polly replied, "and it makes _me_ smile to notice how folks asain't above saying lies about Mary-Clare can trust their children toher teaching. "

"Oh! well, lies are soon killed, " Northrup returned, but his smilevanished. 

Mary-Clare was often troubled by Larry's persistence at the Point. Shecould not account for it, but she did not alter her own way of life. She went, occasionally, to the desolate Point; she rarely saw Larry, but if she did, she greeted him pleasantly. It was amazing to find hownaturally she could do this. Indeed the whole situation was at thesnapping point. 

"I do say, " Twombley confided to Peneluna, "it don't seem nater for awoman not to grieve and fuss at such goings on. "

Peneluna tossed her head and sneezed. 

"I ain't ever understood, " she broke in, "why a woman should fuss andbreak herself on account of a man doing what he oughtn't ter do. Let_him_ do the fussing and breaking. "

"She might try and save him. " Twombley, like all the male Forest, wasstirred at what he could not understand. 

"Women have got their hands full of other things"--Peneluna sneezedagain as if the dust of ages was stifling her--"and I do say thatafter a woman does save a man, she's often too worn out to enjoy hersavings. "

And Larry, carefully dressed, living alone and to all appearancesbrave and steady, simply, according to Maclin's ordering, "let outmore sheet rope" in order that Mary-Clare might sail on to the rocksand smash herself to atoms before the eyes of her fellow creatures. 

Surely the Forest had much to cogitate upon. 

"There is just one ledge of rocks for her kind, " said Maclin. "Youkeep yourself clear and safe, Rivers, and watch the wreck. "

Maclin could be most impressive at times and his conversation had anautical twist that was quite effective. 

Northrup at this time would have been shocked beyond measure had anyone suggested that his own attitude of mind resembled in theslightest degree that of Maclin, Twombley, and Rivers. He was too saneand decent a man to consider for a moment that Mary-Clare's actionswere based in the slightest degree upon his presence in the Forest. Heknew that he had had nothing to do with the matter, but that was noreason for thinking that he might not have. Suggestion was enmeshinghim in the disturbance. 

He felt that Larry was a brute. That he had the outer covering ofrespectability counted against him. Larry always kept his best mannersfor public exhibition; his inheritance of refinement could be tappedat any convenient hour. Northrup knew his type. He had not recalledhis father in years as he did now! A man legally sustained by hisinterpretation of marriage could make a hell or a heaven of anywoman's life. This truism took on new significance in the primitiveForest. 

But in that Mary-Clare had had courage to escape from hell--andNorthrup had pictured it all from memories of his boyhood--roused himto admiration. 

She was of the mettle of his mother. She might be bent but neverbroken. She was treading a path that none of her little world had evertrod before. Alone in the Forest she had taken a stand that she couldnot hope would be understood, and how superbly she was holding it!

Knowing what he did, Northrup compared Mary-Clare with the women ofhis acquaintance; what one of them could defy their conventions as shewas doing, instinctively, courageously?

"But she ought not to be permitted to think all men are like Rivers!"

This thought grew upon Northrup, and it was the first step, generouslytaken, to establish higher ideals for his sex. With the knowledge hehad, he was in a position of safety. Not to be seen with Mary-Clarewhile the silly gossip muttered or whispered would be to acknowledge areason for not meeting her--so he flung caution to the winds. 

There were nutting parties for the children--innocent enough, heavenknew! There were thrilling camping suppers on the flat ridge of thehills in order to watch the miracle of sunset and moonrise. 

No wonder Jan-an cast her lot in with those headed, so the whisperran, for perdition. She had never been so nearly happy in her life;neither had Mary-Clare nor Noreen nor--though he did not ownit--Northrup, himself. 

No wonder Maclin, and the outraged Larry, saw distinctly the ridge onwhich the wreck was to occur. 

But no one was taking into account that idealism in Mary-Clare thatthe old doctor had devoutly hoped would save her, not destroy her. Northrup began to comprehend it during the more intimate conversationsthat took place when the children, playing apart, left him andMary-Clare alone. The wonder grew upon him and humbled him. It wassomething he had never encountered before. A philosophy and code builtentirely upon knowledge gained from books and interpreted by asingular strength and purity of mind. It piqued Northrup; he began totest it, never estimating danger for himself. 

"Books are like people, " Mary-Clare said one day--she was watchingNorthrup build a campfire and the last bit of sunlight fell full uponher--"the words are the costumes. " She had marked the surprised lookin Northrup's eyes as she quoted rather a bald sentiment from an oldbook. 

"Yes, of course, and that's sound reasoning. " For a moment Northrupfelt as though a clear north wind were blowing away the dust in anoverlooked corner of his mind. "But it's rather staggering to findthat you read French, " he added, for the quotation had been literallytranslated. "You do, don't you?"

"I do, a little. I'm taking it up again for Noreen. "

Noreen's name was continually being brought into focus. It had theeffect of pushing Northrup, metaphorically, into a safe zone. Heresented this. 

"She is afraid!" he thought. "Rivers has left his mark upon her mind, damn him!"

This sentiment should have given warning, but it did not. 

"I study nights"--Mary-Clare was speaking quite as if fear had no partin her thought--"French, mathematics--all the hard things that went inand--stuck. "

"Hard things do stick, don't they?" Northrup hated the pushed-asidefeeling. 

"Terribly. But my doctor was adamant about hard things. He used to saythat I'd learn to love chipping off the rough corners. " HereMary-Clare laughed, and the sound set Northrup's nerves a-tingle asthe clear notes of music did. 

"I can see myself now, Mr. Northrup, sitting behind my doctor on hishorse, my book flattened out against his back. I'd ask questions; he'dfling the answers to me. Once I drew the map of Italy on his blessedold shoulders with crayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up theseam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then. "

Northrup laughed aloud. He edged away from his isolation and said:

"Your doctor was a remarkable man. His memory lives in the Forest;it's about the most vital thing here. It and all that preserves it. "His eyes rested upon Mary-Clare. 

"Yes. He was wonderful. Lately he seems more alive than ever. He hadsuch simple rules of life--but they work. He told me so often thatwhen a trouble or anything like that came, there were but two ways tomeet it. If it was going to kill you, die at your best. If it wasn't, get over it at once; never waste time--live as soon as possible. " Wasthere a note of warning in the words?

"And you're doing it?"

An understanding look passed between them. 

"Yes, Mr. Northrup, for Noreen. "

Back went Northrup to his place with a dull thud! Then Mary-Clarehurried to a safer subject. 

"I wish you would tell me about your book, Mr. Northrup. I have thestrangest feeling about it. It seems like a new kind of flower growingin the Forest. I love flowers. "

Northrup looked down at his companion. Her bared head, her musing, radiant face excited and moved him. He had forgotten his book. 

"You're rather like a strange growth yourself, " he said daringly. 

Mary-Clare smiled gaily. 

"You'll have to blame my old doctor for that, " she said. 

"Or bless him, " Northrup broke in. 

"Yes, that's better, if it is true. "

"It's tremendously true. "

"A book"--again that elusive push--"must be a great responsibility. Once you put your thoughts and words down and send them out--there youare!"

"Yes. Good Lord! There you are. "

"I knew that you would feel that way about it and that is why I wouldlike to hear you talk of it. It's a story, isn't it?"

"Yes, a story. "

"You can reach further with a story. "

"I suppose so. You do not have to knuckle down to rules. You can letyour vision have a say, and your feelings. " Northrup, seeing that hisbook must play a part, accepted that fact. 

"I suppose"--Mary-Clare was looking wistfully up at Northrup--"all thepeople in your books work out what you believe is truth. I can always_feel_ truth in a book--or the lack of it. "

In the near distance Noreen and Jan-an were gathering wood. They weresinging and shouting lustily. 

"May I sit on your log?" Northrup spoke hurriedly. 

"Of course, " and Mary-Clare moved a little. "The sun's gone, " she wenton. "It's quite dark in the valley. "

"It's still light here--and there's the fire. " Northrup was watchingthe face beside him. 

"Yes, the fire, and presently the moon rising, just over there. "

Restraint lay between the two on the mossy log. They both resentedit. 

"You know, you must know, that I'd rather have you share my book thanany one else. " Northrup spoke almost roughly. 

He had meant to say something quite different, but anything would doso long as he controlled the situation. 

"I wonder why?" Mary-Clare kept her face turned away. 

"Well, you are so phenomenally keen. You know such a lot. "

"I used to snap up everything like a hungry puppy, Uncle Peter oftensaid. I suppose I do now, Mr. Northrup, but I only know life as ablind person does: I feel. "

"That's just it. You _feel_ life. It isn't coloured for you by others. You get its form, its hardness or softness, its fragrance or thereverse, but you fix your own colour. That's why you'd be such aripping critic. Will you let me read some of my book to you?"

"Oh! of course. I'd be so glad and proud. "

"Come, now, you're not joking?"

The large golden eyes turned slowly and rested upon Northrup. 

"I do not think I ever joke"--Mary-Clare's words fell softly--"aboutsuch things. Why, it would seem like seeing a soul get into a body. You do not joke about that. "

"You make me horribly afraid about my book. People do not usually takethe writing of a book in just that way. "

"I wish they did. You see, my doctor often said that books would liveif they only held truth. He loved these words, 'And above allelse--Truth taketh away the victory!' I can see him now waving hisarms and singing that defiantly, as if he were challenging the wholeworld. He said that truth was the soul of things. "

"But who knows Truth?"

"There is something in us that knows it. Don't you think so?"

"But we see it so differently. "

"That does not matter, if we know it! Truth is fixed and sure. Isn'tthat so?"

"I do not know. Sometimes I think so: then--good Lord! that is whatI'm trying to find out. "

Northrup's face grew tense. 

"And so am I. "

"All right, then, let's go on the quest together!" Northrup stood upand offered his hand to Mary-Clare as if actually they were to starton the pilgrimage. "Where and when may I begin to read to you?"

The children were coming nearer. 

"While this weather lasts, I'd love the open. Wouldn't you? Logs, likethis, are such perfect places. "

"I thought perhaps"--Northrup looked what he dared not voice--"Ithought perhaps in that cabin of yours we might be more comfortable, more undisturbed. "

Mary-Clare smiled and shook her head. 

"No, I think it would be impossible. That cabin is too full--well, I'msure I could not listen as I should, to you, in that cabin. "

And so it was that the book became the medium of expression toNorthrup and Mary-Clare. It justified that which might otherwise havebeen impossible. It drugged them both to any sense of actual danger. It was like a shield behind which they might advance and retreatunseen and unharmed. And if the shield ever fell for an unguardedmoment, Northrup believed that he alone was vouchsafed clear vision. 

He grew to marvel at the simplicity and purity of Mary-Clare's pointof view. He knew that she must have gone through some grossexperiences with a man like Rivers, but they had left her singularlyuntouched. 

But, while Northrup, believing himself shielded from the woman nearhim, permitted his imagination full play, Mary-Clare drew her ownconclusions. She accepted Northrup without question as far as hepersonally was concerned. He was making her life rich and full, but hewould soon pass; become a memory to brighten the cold, dark yearsahead, just as the memory of the old doctor had done: would alwaysdo. 

Desperately Mary-Clare clung to this thought, and reinforced by itreferred constantly to her own position as if to convince Northrup ofperfect understanding of their relations. 

But the book! That was another matter. In that she felt she daredcontemplate the real nature of Northrup. She believed he wasunconsciously revealing himself, and with that keenness of perceptionthat Northrup had detected, she threshed the false notes from the trueand, while hesitating to express herself--for she was timid andnaturally distrustful of herself--she was being prepared for an hourwhen her best would be demanded of her. 

Silently Mary-Clare would sit and listen while Northrup read. Withoutexplanation, the children had been eliminated and, if the day was toocool to sit by the trail side, they would walk side by side, thecrushed leaves making a soft carpet for their feet; the falling leavestouching them gently as they were brushed from their slight holdings. 

Mary-Clare had suddenly abandoned her rough boyish garb. She was sweetand womanly in her plain little gown--and a long coat whose highcollar rose around her grave face. She wore no hat and the light andshade did marvellous things to her hair. There were times whenNorthrup could not take his eyes from that shining head. 

"Why are you stopping?" Mary-Clare would ask at such lapses. 

"My writing is diabolical!" Northrup lied. 

"Oh! I'm sorry. The stops give me a jog. Go on. "

And Northrup would go on!

Without fully being aware of it, until the thing was done, Mary-Claregot vividly into the story. 

And Northrup was doing some good, some daring work. His man, born fromhis own doubts, aspirations, and cravings, was a live and often ablundering creature who could not be disregarded. He was safe enough, but it was the woman who now gave trouble. 

Northrup saw, with fear and trembling, that he had drawn her, so hedevoutly believed, so close to reality that he felt that Mary-Clarewould discover her at once and resent the impertinence. But he neednot have held any such thought. Mary-Clare was far too impersonal; fartoo absorbed a nature to be largely concerned with herself, andNorthrup had failed absolutely in his deductions, as he was soon tolearn. 

What Mary-Clare did see in Northrup's heroine was a maddeningpossibility that he was letting slip through his fingers. At firstthis puzzled her; pained her. She was still timid about expressing herfeeling. But so strong was Northrup's touch in most of his work thatat last he drove his quiet, silent critic from her moorings. She askedthat she might have a copy of a certain part of the book. 

"I want to think it out with my woman-brain, " she laughinglyexplained. "When you read right at this spot--well, you see, itdoesn't seem clear. When I have thought it out alone, then I will tellyou and be--oh! very bold. "

And Northrup had complied. 

He had blazed for himself, some time before, a roundabout trailthrough the briery underbrush from the inn to within a few hundredfeet of the cabin. Often he watched from this hidden limit. He saw thesmoke rise from the chimney; once or twice he caught a glimpse ofMary-Clare sitting at the rough table, and, after she had taken thosechapters away, he knew they were being read there. 

Alone, waiting, expecting he knew not what, Northrup became alarminglyaware that Mary-Clare had got a tremendous hold upon him. Theknowledge was almost staggering. He had felt so sure; had risked somuch. 

He could not deceive himself any longer. Like other men, he had playedwith fire and had been burnt. "But, " he devoutly thought, "thank God, I have started no conflagration. "

CHAPTER XI

There had been five days in which to face a rather ugly and bald factbefore Northrup again saw Mary-Clare. He had employed the time, hetried to make himself believe, wisely, sanely. 

He had spent a good portion of it at the Point. He had irritated Larrybeyond endurance by friendly overtures. In an effort to be just, hetried to include Rivers in his reconstruction. The truth, he sternlybelieved, would never be known, but if it were, certainly Rivers mighthave something to say for himself, and with humiliation Northrupregarded himself "as other men. " He had never, thank heaven! lookedupon himself as better than other men, but he had thought hisstruggle, early in life, his unhappy parenthood, and later devotion tohis work, had set him apart from the general temptations of many youngmen and had given him a distaste for follies that could hold nosuggestion of mystery for him. 

Well, Fate had merely bided its time. 

With every reason for escaping a pitfall, he had floundered in. "Likeother men?" Northrup sneered at himself. No other man could be such aconsummate fool, knowing what he knew. 

Viewed from this position, Larry was not as contemptible as he hadonce appeared. 

But Rivers resented Northrup's advances, putting the lowestinterpretation upon them. In this he was upheld by Maclin, who wasgrowing restive under the tension that did not break, but stretchedendlessly on. 

Northrup resolved to see Mary-Clare once more and then go home. Hewould make sure that the fire he himself was scorched by had nottouched her. After that he would turn his back upon the golden selahin his life and return to his niche in the wall. 

This brought his mother and Kathryn into the line of vision. Howutterly he had betrayed their confidence! His whole life, from now on, should be devoted to their service. Doubtless to other men, likehimself, there were women who were never forgotten, but that must notblot out reality. 

And then Northrup considered the task of unearthing Maclin's secrets, and ridding the Forest of that subtle fear and distrust that the mancreated. That was, however, too big an undertaking now. He must getTwombley to watch and report. Northrup had a great respect forTwombley's powers of observation. 

And so the time on the Point had been put to some purpose, and it hadoccupied Northrup. Noreen and Jan-an had helped, too. It was rathertragic the way Northrup had grown to feel about Noreen. The child haddeveloped his latent love for children--they had never figured in hislife before. So much had been left out, now that he came to think ofit!

And Jan-an. Poor groping creature! To have gained her affection andtrust meant a great deal. 

Then the Heathcotes! Polly and Peter! During those five distraughtdays they developed halos in Northrup's imagination. 

They had taken him in, a stranger. They had fathered and mothered him;staunchly and silently stood by him. What if they knew?

They must never know! He would make sure of that. 

In this frame of mind, chastened and determined, Northrup on the fifthday took his place behind the laurel clump back of Mary-Clare's cabin, and to his relief saw her coming out of the door. His manuscript wasnot in her hands, but her face had an uplifted and luminous look thatset his heart to a quicker pulsing. 

After a decent length of time, Northrup, whistling carelessly, scruffing the dead leaves noiselessly, followed on and overtookMary-Clare near the log upon which they had sat at their lastmeeting. 

The quaint poise and dignity of the girl was the first impressionNorthrup always got. He had never quite grown accustomed to it; it waslike a challenge--his impulse was to test it. It threatened hisexalted state now. 

"It's quite mysterious, isn't it?"

Mary-Clare sat down on her end of the log and looked up, her eyestwinkling. 

"What is mysterious?" Northrup took his place. The log was not a longone. 

"The way we manage to meet. "

She was setting him at a safe distance in that old way of hers thatsomehow made her seem so young. 

It irritated Northrup now as it never had before. 

He had prepared himself for an ordeal, was keyed to a high note, andthe quiet, smiling girl near him made it all seem a farce. 

This was dangerous. Northrup relaxed. 

"It's been nearly a week since I saw you, " he said, and let his eyesrest upon Mary-Clare's face. 

"Yes, nearly a week, " she said softly, "but it took me all that timeto make up my mind. "

"About what?"

"Your book. "

Northrup had forgotten, for the moment, his book, and he resented itsintroduction. 

"Damn the book!" he thought. Aloud he said: "Of course! You were goingto tell me where I have fallen down. "

"I hope you are not making a joke of it"--Mary-Clare's faceflushed--"but even if you are, I am going to tell you what I think. Imust, you know. "

"That's awfully good of you"--Northrup became earnest--"but it doesn'tmatter now, I am going away. Let us talk of something else. "

Mary-Clare took this in silence. The only evidence of her surpriseshowed in the higher touch of colour that rose, then died out, leavingher almost pale. 

"Then, there is all the more reason why I must tell you what I think, "she said at last. 

The words came like sharp detached particles; they hurt. 

"We must talk about the book!"

And Northrup suddenly caught the truth. The book was their commonlanguage. Only through that could they reach each other, understandingly. 

"All right!" he murmured, and turned his face away. 

"It's your woman, " Mary-Clare began with a sharp catching of herbreath as if she had been running. "Your woman is not real. "

Northrup flushed. He was foolishly and suddenly angry. If the bookmust be brought in, he would defend it. It was all that was left tohim of this detached interlude of his life. He meant to keep it. Itwas one thing to live along in his story and daringly see how close hecould come to revealment with the keen-witted girl who had inspiredhim, but quite another, now that he was going, beaten from the field, to have the book, _as_ a book, assailed. As to books, he knew hisbusiness!

"You put _your_ words in your woman's mouth, " Mary-Clare was saying. 

"And whose words, pray, should I put there?" Northrup asked huskily. 

"You must let her speak for herself. "

"Good Lord!"

Mary-Clare did not notice the interruption. She was doing battle formore than Northrup guessed. She hoped he would never know the truth, but the battle must be fought if all the beautiful weeks of joy wereto be saved for the future. The idealism that the old doctor haddesperately hoped might save, not destroy, Mary-Clare was to proveitself now. 

"There are so many endings in life, that it is hard, in a book, tochoose just one. Why should there be an end to a book?" she asked. 

The question came falteringly and Northrup almost laughed. 

"Go on, please, " he said quietly. "You think I've ended my woman byletting her do what any woman in real life would do?"

"All women would not do what your woman does. Such women end men!"

This was audacious, but it caught Northrup's imagination. 

"Go on, " he muttered lamely. 

"Do you think love is everything to a woman?" Mary-Clare demandedferociously. 

"It is the biggest thing!" Northrup was up in arms to defend his codeand his work. 

"You think it could wipe out honour, all the things that meant honourto her?"

"Love conquers everything for a woman. "

"Does it for a man?"

Northrup tried to fling out the affirmative, but he hedged. 

"Largely, yes. "

"I do not think that. There are some things bigger to him. Maybe notbigger, but things that he would choose instead of love, if he had to. It is what you _do_ to love that matters. If you come and take it whenyou haven't a right to it; when you'd be stealing it; letting othersacred things go for it--then you would be killing love. But if youhonour it, even if it is lonely and often sad, it lives and livesand----"

The universe, at that momentous instant, seemed to rock and tremble. Everything was swept aside as by a Force that but bided its hour andhad taken absolute control. 

Northrup was never able to connect the two edges of conscious thoughtthat were riven apart by the blinding stroke that left him andMary-Clare in that space where their souls met. But, thank God, theForce was not evil; it was but revealing. 

Northrup drew Mary-Clare to her feet and held her little work-wornhands close. 

"You are crying--suffering, " he whispered. 

"Yes. "

"And----"

"Oh! please wait"--the deep sobs shook the girl--"you must wait. I'lltry to--to make you see. I was awake that night at the inn--that iswhy I--trust you now! Why I want you to--to understand. "

She seemed pleading with him--it made him wince; she was calling forthhis best to help her weakest. 

"Your book"--Mary-Clare gripped that again--"your book is a beautiful, live thing--we must keep it so! Your man has grown and grown throughevery page until he quite naturally believed he was able to--to domore than any man can ever do! Why, this is your chance to bedifferent, stronger. " The quick, panting words ran into each other andthen Mary-Clare controlled them while, unheeded, the tears rolled downher cheeks. "You must let your woman _act_ for herself! She, too, mustlearn and know. She made a horrible mistake from _not_ knowing andseeing the first man; no love can help her by taking the solution fromher. She must be free--free and begin again. If it is right----"

"Yes, Mary-Clare. If it is right, what then?"

Everything seemed to wait upon the answer. The scurrying woodcreatures and the dropping of dead leaves alone broke the silence. Slowly, like one coming into consciousness, Mary-Clare drew one handfrom Northrup's, wiped her eyes, and then--let it fall again intohis!

"I can see clearer now, " she faltered. "Please, please try tounderstand. It is because love means so much to some women, that whenthey think it out with their women-minds they will be very careful ofit. They will feel about it as men do about their honour. There mustbe times when love must stand aside if they want to keep it! I knowhow queer and crooked all this must sound, but men do not stop lovingif their honour makes them turn from it. We are all, men and women, too, _parts_--we cannot act as if--oh! you do understand, I know youdo, and some day you will go on with your beautiful book. "

"And the end of my book, Mary-Clare? There must be an end. "

"I do not know. I do not think a great big book ever ends any morethan life ends. "

Northrup was swept from his hard-wrought position at this. The nextwave of emotion might carry him higher, but for the moment he wasdrifting, drifting. 

"You do not know life, nor men, nor women, " he said huskily andclutched her hands in his. "If life cheats and injures you, you have aright to snatch what joy you can. It's not only what you do to love, but what you do to yourself, that counts. For real love can standanything. "

"No, it cannot!" Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the holdtighten on her hands; "it cannot stand dishonour. That's what killsit. "

"Dishonour! What _is_ dishonour?" Northrup asked bitterly. "I'm goingto prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man andwoman with a big enough love can throttle life; cheat the cheater. "This came defiantly. 

But the book no longer served its purpose; it seemed to fall at thefeet of the man and woman, standing with clasped hands and hungry, desperate eyes. 

The words that might have changed their lives were never spoken, for, down the trail gaily, joyously, came the sound of Noreen's voice, shrilly singing one of the songs Northrup had taught her. 

"That's what I mean by honour, " Mary-Clare whispered. "Noreen and allthat she is! You, you _do_ understand about some women, don't you? Youwill help, not hurt, such women, won't you?"

"For God's sake, Mary-Clare, don't!"

Northrup bent and touched his lips to the small work-stained hands. The song down the trail rose joyously. 

"I have thought of you"--Mary-Clare was catching her breathsharply--"as Noreen has--a man brought by the haunted wind. It has allbeen like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where youbelong, but I know there are those in that place who are likeNoreen. "

"Yes!" Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell uponhis hands and Mary-Clare's. 

"The wind is changing, " said the woman. "The lovely autumn has beenkind and has stayed long. "

"My dear, my dear--don't!" Northrup pleaded. 

"Oh! but I must. You see I want you to think back, as I shall--at allthis as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you totell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must pictureyou there now. "

Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was acold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-likequality in it, too. 

It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understandingof life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking tosmooth his way on ahead; to take the bitterness from a memory that, without her sacrifice, might hold him back from what had been, was, and must always be, inevitable. She was ignoring the weak, temptedmoment and linking the past with all that the future must hold forthem both. 

There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow--to acceptthe commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave thathides a beautiful thing. 

"You have never been to the city?"

There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolishwords. 

"Yes, once. On my wedding trip. "

This was unfortunate, but words without thought are wild things. 

Mary-Clare hurried along while visions of Larry's city rose like smitingrebukes to her heedlessness. Cheap theatres, noisy restaurants, gaudylights. 

"My dear doctor and I always planned going together, " she saidbrokenly. "I believe there are many cities in the city. One has tofind his city for himself. "

"Yes, that's exactly what one does. " Northrup closed his hand closerover the dead-cold one in his grasp. 

"Your city, it must be wonderful. "

"It will be a haunted city, Mary-Clare. "

"Tell me about it. And tell me a little, if you don't mind, about yourpeople. "

The bravery was almost heart-breaking, it caused Northrup's lips toset grimly. 

"There is my mother, " he replied. 

"I'm glad. You love her very much?"

"Very much. She's wonderful. My father died long ago. "

Mary-Clare did not ask whether he loved his father or not, and shehurried on:

"And now, when I try to think of you in your city, at your work, justhow shall I think of you? Make it like a picture. "

Northrup struggled with himself. The girl beside him, in pushing himfrom her life, was so unutterably sweet and brave. 

"My dear, my dear!" he whispered, and remorse, pity, yearning rang inthe words. 

"Make it like a picture!" Relentlessly the words were repeated. Theydemanded that he give his best. 

"Think of a high little room in a tall tower overlooking all cities, "he began slowly, "the cheap, the beautiful, the glad, and the sad. Thesteam and smoke roll up and seem to make a gauzy path upon which allthat really matters comes and goes as one sits and watches. "

Mary-Clare's eyes were wide and vision-filled. 

"Oh! thank you, " she whispered. "I shall always see it and you so. Andsometimes, maybe when the sun is going down, as it is now, you willsee me on that trail that is just yours, in your city coming to--towish you well!"

"Good God!" Northrup shook himself. "What's got us two? We've workedourselves into a pretty state. Talking as, as if--Mary-Clare, I'm notgoing away. There will be other days. It's that book of mine. Hang it!We've got snarled in the book. "

The weak efforts to ignore everything failed pitifully. 

"No, it is life. " Mary-Clare grew grim as Northrup relaxed. "But Iwant you always to remember my old doctor's rule. If a thing is goingto kill you, die bravely; if it isn't, get over it at once and livethe best you can. "

"God bless and keep you, Mary-Clare. " Absolute surrender marked thetone. 

"He will!"

"But this is not good-bye!"

"No, it is not good-bye. "

CHAPTER XII

While the days were passing and Mary-Clare and Northrup, with the bookbetween them as a shield, fought their battle and won their victory, they had taken small heed of the undercurrent that was not merelycarrying them on, but bearing others, also. 

Northrup was comfortably conscious of Aunt Polly and old Peter, at thedays' ends. The sense of going home to them was distinctly a joy, afitting and safe interlude. 

Noreen and Jan-an supplied the light-comedy touch, for the two werecapable of supplying no end of fun when there were hours that couldnot be utilized in work or devoted to that thrilling occupation ofwalking the trails with Mary-Clare. 

The real, sordid tragedy element played small part in the autumn idyl, but it was developing none the less. 

Larry on the Point was showing more patient persistence than one couldhave expected. He went about Maclin's business with his usualreticence and devotion; occasionally he was away for a few days; whenhe was at home in Peneluna's shack he was a quiet, rather patheticfigure of a man at loose ends, but casting no slurs. It was thatpacific attitude of his that got on the nerves of his doubters andthose who believed they understood him. 

Peneluna, torn between her loyalty to Mary-Clare and the decency shefelt called upon to show the old doctor's son, was becoming irritableand jerky. Jan-an shrank from her and whimpered:

"What have I done? Ain't I fetching and carrying for him?"--she noddedheavily toward Larry's abiding place. "Ain't I watching and tellingyer all that he does? Writing and tearing up what he writes! Ain't Ishowing you his scraps what don't get burned? Ain't I acting square?"

Peneluna softened. 

"Yes, you are!" she admitted. "But I declare, after finding nothingagin him, one gets to wondering if there _is_ anything agin him. Idon't like suspecting my feller creatures. "

"Suspectin' ain't like murdering!" Jan-an blurted out. 

"If you don't stop talking like that, Jan-an----" But Peneluna paused, for she saw the frightened look creeping into Jan-an's dull eyes. 

It was while the Point was agitated about Larry that Twombley broughtforth his gun and took to cleaning it and fondling it by his doorway. This action of Twombley's fascinated Jan-an. 

"What yer going to shoot?" she asked. 

"Ducks, maybe. " Twombley leered pleasantly. 

"I wish yer wouldn't. "

"Why, Jan-an?"

"Ducks ain't so used to it as chickens. I hate to see flying things as_can_ fly popped over. "

At this Twombley laughed aloud. 

"All right, girl, I'll hunt up something else to aim at--somethingthat's used to it. I ain't saying I'll hit anything, but aimin' andfinding out how steady yer hand is ain't lacking in sport. "

So Twombley erected a target and enlivened and startled the Point byhis practise. Maclin, after a few weeks of absence from the Point, called occasionally on his private agent and he was displeased byTwombley's new amusement. 

"What in thunder are you up to?" he asked. 

"Not much--yet!" Twombley admitted. "Don't hit the hole more than onceout of four. "

"But the noise is bad for folks, Twombley. "

"They like it, " Twombley broke in. "Makes 'em jump and know they'realive. It's like fleas on dogs. "

"When I'm talking business with Rivers, " Twombley insisted, "I hatethe racket. "

"All right, when I see you there, I'll hold off. "

But Maclin did not want always to be seen at the shack. It was onething to stroll down to the Point, now and again, with that air ofhaving made mistakes in the past and greeting the Pointers pleasantly, and quite another to find out, secretly, just what progress Larry wasmaking in his interests and knowing what Larry was doing with his longdays and nights. 

So, after a fortnight of consideration, Maclin walked with Rivers fromthe mines one night determined to spend several hours in the shack and"use his eyes. " Larry did not seem particularly pleased with thisintention and paused several times on the rough, dusky road, givingMaclin an opportunity to bid him good-night. But Maclin stuck like thelittle brown devil-pitchforks that decorated the trousers of both menas they strode on the woodside of the road. 

"I'm like a rat in a hole, " Larry confided, despairing of shakingMaclin off. "I wish to God you'd send me away somewhere--overseas, ifyou can. You once promised that. "

Maclin's eyes contracted, but it was too dark for Rivers to notice. 

"Too late, just now, Rivers. That hell of a time they're having overthere keeps peaceful folks to their own waters. "

"Sometimes"--Larry grew moody--"I've thought I'd like to tumble intothat mess and either----"

"What?" Abruptly Maclin caught Rivers up. 

"Oh! go under or--come to the top. " This was to laugh--so both menlaughed. 

Laughing and talking in undertones, they came to the dark shack andLarry, irritated at his inability to drop Maclin, unlocked the doorand went in, followed by his unwelcome guest. 

"What in thunder do you lock this old rookery up for?" Maclin asked, stumbling over a chair. 

"I've got a notion lately that folks peep and pry. I've seenfootprints around the house. "

"Well, why shouldn't they pry and tramp about? The Point's gettingdippy. And that blasted gun of Twombley's! See here, Rivers!"

By this time Larry had lighted the smelly lamp and closed the door andlocked it. 

"You're getting nervous and twisted, Rivers. "

The two sat down by the paper-strewn table. 

"Well, who wouldn't?" snapped Rivers. "Hiding in this junk, knowing that your wife----" he paused abruptly, but Maclin noddedsympathetically. "It's hell, Maclin. "

"Sure! Got anything to drink?"

Larry went to the closet and brought out a bottle and glasses. 

"This helps!" Maclin said, pouring out the best brand from the Cosey. 

The men drained their glasses and became, after a few minutes, morecheerful. Maclin stretched out his legs--he had to do this in order toadjust his fat and put his hands in his pockets. 

"Larry, I want to tell you that you won't have to hide in your holemuch longer. I'm one too many for that fellow Northrup. I hold thecards now. "

"The devil you do!" Rivers's eyes brightened. 

"Yes, sir. He wants the Point, old man, and the Heathcotes gave himthe knowledge that your wife owns it. He's getting her where he canhandle her. Damn shame, I say--using a woman and taking advantage ofher weak side. If we don't act spry he'll get what he wants. "

Larry's face flushed a purple-red. 

"What do you mean, Maclin? Talk out straight and clear. "

"Well, I weigh it this way and that. Northrup might--I hate to usebrutal terms--he might compromise your wife and get her to sell andshut him up, or he might get her so bedazzled that she'd feel real setup to negotiate with him. A man like Northrup is pretty flattering toa woman like your wife, Rivers. You see, she's carrying such a bigcargo of learning and fancy rot that she can't properly sail. Thatkind gets stranded _always_, Larry. They just naturally _make_ forrocks. "

Larry had a sensation of choking and loosened his collar, then hesurprised Maclin by turning and lighting a fire in the stove before hefurther surprised him by asking, with dangerous calmness:

"What in all that's holy do you--this Northrup--any one, want thisdamned Point for?"

Maclin was rarely in a position to fence with Rivers, but he was now. 

"Larry, old man, did you ever have in your life an ideal, or whatstands for it, that you would work for, and suffer for?"

"No!" Rivers could not stand delay. 

"Well, I have, Larry. I'm an old sentimentalist, when you know meproper. I took a fancy to you, and while I can't show my feelings asmany can, I have stood by you and you've been a proposition, off andon. I bought those mines because I saw the chance they offered, and Ishared with you. I've got big men interested. I've let you carryresults to them--but the results are slow, Rivers, and they're gettingrestive. I'm afraid some one of them has blabbed and this Northrup isthe result. Why, man, I've got inventions over at the mines that willrevolutionize this rotten, lazy Forest. I wanted to win the folks--butthey wouldn't be won. I wanted to save them in spite of themselves, but damn 'em, they won't be saved. In a year I could make Heathcote arich man, if he'd wake up and _keep_ an inn instead of a kennel. ButI've got to have this Point. I want to build a bridge from here to therailroad property on the other shore--this is the narrowest part ofthe lake; I want to build cottages here, instead of--of rat holes. I've got to get this Point by hook or crook--and I can't shilly-shallywith this Northrup on to the game. "

Suddenly, while he was talking, Maclin's eyes fell upon the untidymass of papers on the table. He pulled his fat hands out of his tightpockets and let them fall like paperweights on the envelopes andsheets. 

"What are these?" he asked. 

Larry started guiltily. 

"Old letters, " he said. 

"What you doing with them?" As he spoke Maclin was sorting andarranging the papers--the old he put to one side; the newer ones onthe other. Some of the new ones were astonishingly good copies of theold!

"Playing the old game, eh?" Maclin scowled. "I thought you'd hadenough of that, after----"

"For God's sake, Maclin, shut up. "

"Been carrying these mementos around with you all these years?"

Maclin was reading a letter of Larry's father--an old one. 

"No, I brought them with me from the old house. Mary-Clare had them, but they were mine. " Larry's face was white and set into hard lines. 

"Sure, so I see. " And Maclin was seeing a great deal. 

He saw that Rivers had torn off, where it was possible, half pagesfrom the old and yellowed letters; these were carefully bandedtogether, while on fresh sheets of paper, the old letters in part, orin whole, were cleverly copied. 

There was one yellowed half sheet in the old doctor's handwritingbearing a new form of expression--there was no original of this. Maclin made sure of that. He read this new form once, twice, threetimes. 

"If the time should ever come, my girl, when you and Larry could notagree, he'll give you this letter. It is all I could do for him; itwill prove that I trust you, at every turn, to do the right and justthing. Stand by Larry, as I have done. "

Maclin puffed out his cheeks. They looked like a child's red balloon. "What in hell!" he ejaculated. 

Larry's face was gray. Guilt is always quick to hold up its hands whenit thinks the enemy has the drop on it. 

"Can't you understand?" he whispered through dry lips. "I want tooutwit them. I'm as keen as you, Maclin, and I'm working for you, oldman, working for you! I was going to take this to her--she'll doanything when she reads that--and I was going to tell her why the oldman stood by me. That would shut her mouth and make her pay. "

There is in the shield of every man a weak spot. There was one in theshield of Maclin's brutal villainy. For a moment he felt positivelyvirtuous; perhaps the sensation proved the embryo virtue in all. 

"Are any of these things real?" he asked with a rough catch in hisvoice; "and don't lie to me--it wouldn't be healthy. "

"No. "

"You got your wife by letting her think your old father wanted it, wrote about it?"

"Yes. I had to outwit them some way. I was just free and couldn'tchoose. They had no right to cut me out. "

"Well, by God, you _are_ a rotter, Rivers. " The lines at whichcriminals balk are confusing. "And she never guessed?"

"No, she'd never seen Father's writing in letters. "

Then Maclin's outraged virtue took a curious turn. 

"And you never cared for her after you got her?"

"I might have if she'd been the right sort--but she's as hard as flint, Maclin. A man can't stand her sort and keep his own self-respect. "

Maclin indulged in a weak laugh at this and Larry's face burned. 

"I might have gone straight if she'd been square, but she wasn't. Aman can't put up with her type. And now--well! She ought to pay now. "

Maclin was gripping the loose sheets in his fat, greasy hands. 

"Hold on there. " Larry pointed. "You're getting them creased anddirty!"

Again Maclin laughed. 

"I'll leave enough copy, " he muttered. Then he fixed his little eyeson his prey while his fat neck wrinkled in the back. His emotion ofvirtue flickered and died, he was the alert man of business once more. "I told you after you got out of prison, Rivers, that I'd never standfor any more of that counterfeiting stuff. It's too risky, and thetalent can be put to better purpose. I've stood by you, I like you, and I need you. When we all pony up you'll get your share--I mean whenwe build up the Forest, you'll have a fat berth, but you've got toplay a card now for me and play it damn quick. Here, take this gem ofyours"--he tossed Larry's latest production to him--"and go to yourwife to-morrow, and tell her why your old man stood by you; shut hermouth with that choice bit and then tell her--you want the Point!You've got her cornered, Rivers. She can't escape. If she tries to, hurl Northrup at her. "

Larry wiped his lips with his hot hand. 

"I haven't quite finished this, " he muttered; "it will take a day ortwo. "

"Rivers, if you try any funny work on me----" Maclin looked dangerous. He felt the fear that comes from not trusting those he must use. 

"I'm not going to double-cross you, Maclin. "

"Here, take a nifter. " Maclin pushed the bottle toward Rivers. "Youlook all in, " he ventured. 

"I am, just about. "

"Well, after this piece of business, I'll send you off for as long asyou want to stay. You need a change. "

Larry revived after a moment or two and some colour crept into hischeeks. 

"I'm going now, " Maclin said, getting up and releasing the tools ofLarry's trade. "Better get a good night's rest and be fresh forto-morrow. A day or so won't count, so long as we understand the game. Good-night!"

Outside in the darkness Maclin stood still and listened. His ironnerves were shaken and he had his moment of far vision. If hesucceeded--well! at that thought Maclin felt his blood run riotouslyin his veins. Glory! Glory! His name ringing out into fame. 

But!--the cold sweat broke over the fat man standing in the dark. Still, he would not have been the man he was if he permitted doubt tolinger. He _must_ succeed. Right was back of him; with him. UnyieldingRight. It must succeed. 

Maclin strode on, picking his way over the ash heaps and brokenbottles. A pale moon was trying to make itself evident, but piles ofblack clouds defeated it at every attempt. The wind was changing. From afar the chapel bell struck its warning. It rang wildly, gleefully, then sank into silence only to begin once more. Seeking, seeking a quarter in which it might rest. 

Maclin, head down, plunged into the night and reached the road to themines. He saw to it that the road was so bad that no one would use itexcept from necessity, but he cursed it now. He all but fell severaltimes, he thanked God--God indeed!--when the lights of the Cosey Barcame in sight. 

He did not often drink of his public whiskey, or drink with hisforeigners, but he chose to do so to-night. His men welcomed himthickly--they had been wallowing in beer for hours; the man at the bardrew forth a bottle of whiskey--he knew Maclin rarely drank beer. 

An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talkingslowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Theirdull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement thatamounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloftand muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer. 

Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machinesof the mines, but a vital force ready for action. 

CHAPTER XIII

Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life afterthat revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sensedeceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able toclassify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As itstood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusualqualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strainof repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his futurewith remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but goaway and let the incidents of King's Forest bear sanctifying fruits, not draughts of wormwood. 

Something rather big had happened to him--he must not permit it tobecome small. He recalled Mary-Clare's words and face and a greattenderness swept over him. 

"Poor little girl, " he thought, "part of a commonplace, dingy tragedy. What is there for her? But what could I have done for her, in God'sname, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough. "

No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing andgo home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situationwas bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding toleave and actually leaving were different matters. 

The weather jeered at him by its glorious warmth and colour. It _held_day after day with occasional sharp storms that ended in greaterbeauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried towork: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but heknew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in thestory--the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt as ifhe were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had timefinally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meetingMary-Clare. 

"I'll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks, " hecompromised with his lesser--or better--self. "Then I'll beat it!"

Looking to this he asked Uncle Peter what the chances were of a coldspell. 

"There was a time"--Peter sniffed the air. He was husking golden cornby the kitchen fire--"when I could calculate about the weather, butsince the weather man has got to meddling he's messed thingsconsiderable. He's put in the Middle States, and what-not, until it'slike doing subtraction and division--and by that time the change ofweather is on you. "

Northrup laughed. 

"Well, " he said, getting up and stretching, "I think I'll take a turnbefore I go to bed. Bank the fire, Uncle Peter; I may prowl late. "

Heathcote asked no questions, but those prowls of Northrup's wereputting his simple faith to severe tests. Peter was above gossip, butwhen it swirled too near him he was bound to watch out. 

"All right, son, " he muttered, and ran his hand through his bristlinghair. 

The night was a dark one. A soft darkness it was, that held no windand only a hint of frost. Stepping quickly along the edge of the lake, Northrup felt that he was being absorbed by the still shadows and thesensation pleased and comforted him. He was not aware of thought, butthought was taking him into control, as the night was. There would bemoments of seeming blank and then a conclusion! A vivid, finalconclusion. Of course Mary-Clare occupied these moments of seemingmental inaction. Northrup now wanted to set her free from--what?

"That young beast of a husband!" So much for that conclusion. If theend had come between him and Mary-Clare, Northrup wondered if he couldfree her from Rivers. 

"What for?"

This brought a hurtling mass of conclusions. 

"No man has a right to get a stranglehold on a woman. If she has, asthe old darkey said, lost her taste for him, why in thunder should hewant to cram himself down her throat?"

This was more common sense than moral or legal, and Northrup bent hishead and plunged along. He walked on, believing that he was master ofhis soul and his actions at last, while, in reality, he was but partof the Scheme of Things and was acting under orders. 

Presently, he imagined that he had decided all along to go to thePoint and have a talk with Twombley. So he kept straight ahead. 

Twombley delighted his idle hours. The man, apparently, never went tobed until daylight, and his quaint unmorality was as diverting as thatof an impish boy. 

"Now, sir, " he had confided to Northrup at a recent meeting, "there'sPeneluna Sniff. Good cook; good manager. I held off while she playedup to old Sniff, women _are_ curious! But now that woman ought to beutilized legitimate-like. She's running to waste and throwing away hertalents on that young Rivers as is giving this here Point the creeps. Peneluna and me together could find things out!"

Northrup, hurrying on, believed there was no better way to drive offthe blue devils that were torturing him than to pass the evening withTwombley. 

Just then he heard quick, light footsteps coming toward him. He hidbehind some bushes by the path and waited. 

The oncomer was Larry Rivers on his way from the Point. His hat waspulled down over his face and his hands were plunged in his pockets. Alighted cigar in his mouth illumined his features--Larry rarely neededhis hands to manipulate his cigar; a shift seemed to be all that wasessential, until the ashes fell and the cigar was almost finished. 

Larry walked on, and when he was beyond sound Northrup proceeded onhis way. 

The Point seemed wrapped in decent slumber. A light frankly burned inTwombley's hovel, but for the rest, darkness!

Oddly enough, Northrup passed Twombley's place without halting, andpresently found himself nearing Rivers's. This did not surprise him. He had quite forgotten his plan. 

It was seeing Larry that had suggested this new move, probably; at anyrate, Northrup was curiously interested in the fact that Larry washeaded away from the Point and toward the yellow house. 

The loose rubbish and garbage presently got into Northrup'sconsciousness and made him think, as they always did, of Maclin'sdetermination to get possession of the ugly place. 

"It is the very devil!" he muttered, almost tumbling over a smellypile. "What's that?" He crouched in the darkness. His eyes were soaccustomed to the gloom now that he saw quite distinctly the door ofPeneluna's shack open, close softly, and someone tiptoeing towardRivers's shanty. Keeping at a distance, Northrup followed and when hewas about twenty feet behind the other prowler, he saw that it wasJan-an and that she was cautiously going from window to window ofLarry's empty house, peeping, listening, and then finally mutteringand whimpering. 

"Well, what in thunder!" Northrup decided to investigate but keepsilent as long as he could. 

A baby in the distance broke into a cry; a man's rough voice stilledit with a threat and then all was quiet once more. 

The next thing that occurred was the amazing sight of Jan-an nimblyclimbing into the window of Larry's kitchen! Jan-an had either priedthe sash up or Larry had been careless. Northrup went up to the houseand listened. Jan-an was moving rapidly about inside and presently shelighted a lamp, and through the slit between the shade and the windowledge Northrup could watch the girl's movements. 

Jan-an wore an old coat, a man's, over a coarse nightgown; her hairstraggled down her back; her vacant face was twitching and worried, but a decent kind of dignity touched it, too. She was bent upon adefinite course, but was confused and uncertain as to details. 

Over the papers scattered on the table Jan-an bent like a hungry beastof prey. Her long fingers clutched the loose sheets; her devouringeyes scanned them, compared them with others, while over and again amuttered curse escaped the girl's lips. 

Northrup took a big chance. He went to the door and tapped. 

He heard a quick, frightened move toward the window--Jan-an wasescaping as she had entered. As the sash was raised, Northrup wasclose to the window and the girl reeled back as she saw him. 

"Jan-an, " he said quietly, controllingly, "let me in. You can trustme. Let me in. "

Poor Jan-an was in sore need of someone in whom she might trust andshe could not afford to waste time. She raised the sash again, climbedin, and then opened the door. Northrup entered and locked the doorafter him. 

"Now, then, " he said, sitting opposite to the girl who dropped, ratherthan seated herself, in her old place. "Jan-an, what are you up to?"

To his surprise, the girl burst into tears. 

"My God, " she moaned, "what did I have feelin's for--and no sense? Ican't read!" she blurted. "I can't read. "

This was puzzling, but Northrup saw that the girl had confidence inhim--a desperate, unknowing confidence that had grown slowly. 

"Why do you want to read, Jan-an?" he asked in a low, kindly tone. 

"I know you ain't his friend, are you?" The wet, pitiful face waslifted. Old fears and distrust rose grimly. 

"Whose?"

"Maclin's, ole divil-man Maclin?"

"Certainly not! You know better than to ask that, Jan-an. "

"Nor his--Larry Rivers?"

"No, I am not his friend. "

Thus reassured once more, Jan-an ventured nearer:

"You don't aim to hurt--her?"

"Whom do you mean?" Northrup was perplexed by the growing intelligencein the face across the table. It was like a slow revealing of agroping power. 

"I mean them--Mary-Clare and Noreen. "

"Hurt them? Why, Jan-an, I'd do anything to help them, make them safeand happy. " Northrup felt as if he and the girl opposite were rapidlybecoming accomplices in a tense plot. "What does all this mean?"

"As God seeing yer, yer mean that?" Jan-an leaned forward. 

"God seeing me! Yes, Jan-an. "

"Yer ain't hanging around her to do her--dirt?"

"Good Lord, no!" Northrup recoiled. Apparently new anxiety wasovercoming the girl. 

Then, by a sudden dash, Jan-an swept the untidy mass of papers over tohim; she abdicated her last stronghold. 

"What's them?" she demanded huskily. Northrup brought the smellykerosene lamp nearer and as he read he was conscious of Jan-an'smutterings. 

"Stealing her letters--what is letters, anyway? And I've counted andwatched--he's took one to her to-night. Just one. One he has made. Writing day in and out--tearing up writing--sneaking and lying. God!And new letters looking like old ones, till I'm fair crazy. "

For a few moments Northrup lost the sound of Jan-an's gutturalwhimpers, then he caught the words:

"And her crying and wanting the letters. Just letters!" Northrup againbecame absorbed. 

He placed certain old sheets on one side of the table; newer sheets onthe other; some half sheets in the middle. It was like an intricatepuzzle, and the same one that Maclin had recently tackled. 

That he was meddling with another's property and reading another'sletters did not seem to occur to Northrup. He was held by a determinedforce that was driving him on and an intense interest that justifiedany means at his disposal. 

"Some day I will read my old doctor's letters to you--I have kept themall!"

Northrup looked up. Almost he believed Jan-an had voiced the words, but they had been spoken days ago by Mary-Clare during one of thoseilluminating talks of theirs and here _were_ some old letters of thedoctor's. Were these Mary-Clare's letters? Why were they here and inthis state?

Suddenly Northrup's face stiffened. The old, yellowed letters were, apparently, from Doctor Rivers to his son! But there were otherletters on bits of fresh paper, the handwriting identical, or nearlyso. Northrup's more intelligent eye saw differences. The more recentletters were, evidently, exercises; one improved on the other; in somecases parts of the letters were repeated. All these Northrup sortedand laid in neat piles. 

"She set a store by them old letters, " Jan-an was rambling along. "I'dhave taken them back to her, but I 'clar, 'fore God, I don't knowwhich is which, I'm that cluttered. Why did he want to pest her bytaking them and then making more and more?"

"I'm trying to find out. " Northrup spoke almost harshly. He wanted toquiet the girl. 

The last scrap of paper had been torn from an old, greasy bag and boreclever imitation. It was the last copy, Northrup believed, of whatJan-an said he had just carried away with him. 

Northrup grew hot and cold. He read the words and his brain reeled. Itwas an appeal, or supposed to be one, from a dead man to one whom hetrusted in a last emergency. 

"So he's this kind of a scoundrel!" muttered Northrup, dazed by theblinding shock of the fear that became, moment by moment, moredefinite. "And he's taken the thing to her in order to get money. "

Northrup could grope along, but he could not see clearly. Bytemperament and training he had evolved a peculiar sensitiveness inrelation to inanimate things. If he became receptive and passive, articles which he handled or fixed his eyes upon often transmittedmessages for him. 

So, now, disregarding poor Jan-an, who rambled on, Northrup gazed atthe letters near him, and held close the brown-paper scrap which was, he believed, the final copy before the finished production which wasundoubtedly being borne to Mary-Clare now. Rivers would have a scenewith his wife in the yellow house. With no one to interfere! Northrupstarted affrightedly, then realized that before he could get to thecrossroads whatever was to occur would have occurred. 

Larry would return to the shack. There was every evidence that he hadnot departed finally. Believing that no one would disturb his place solate at night he had taken a chance and--been caught by the lastperson in the world one would have suspected. 

As an unconscious sleuth Jan-an was dramatic. Northrup let his eyesfall upon the girl with new significance. She had given him the powerto set Mary-Clare free!

Her dull, tear-stained face was turned hopefully to him; her straight, coarse hair hung limply on her shoulders--the old coat had slippedaway and the ugly nightgown but partly hid the thin, scraggy body. Lost to all self-consciousness, the poor creature was but an evidenceof faith and devotion to them who had been kind to her. Something ofnobility crowned the girl. Northrup went around to her and pulled theold coat close under her chin. 

"It's all right, Jan-an, " he comforted, patting the unkempt head. 

"Are them the letters he stole?"

"Some of them, yes, Jan-an. "

"Kin I take 'em back to her?"

"Not to-night. I think Rivers will take them back. "

"S'pose he won't. "

"He will. "

"You, you're going to fetch him one?" The instinct of the savage rosein the girl. 

"If necessary, yes!" Northrup shared the primitive instinct at thatmoment. "And now you trot along home, my girl, and don't open yourlips to any one. "

"And you?"

"I'll wait for Mr. Larry Rivers here!"

"My God!" Jan-an burst forth. Then: "There's a sizable log back ofthe stove. Yer can fetch a good one with that. "

"Thanks, Jan-an. Go now. "

Jan-an rose stiffly and shuffled to the door, unlocked it, and wentinto the blackness outside. 

Then Northrup sat down and prepared to wait. 

The stove was rusty and cold, but Rivers had evidently had a huge fireon the hearth during the day. Now that he noticed, Northrup saw thatthere were scraps of burned paper fluttering like wings of evil omensstricken in their flight. 

He went over to the hearth, poked the ashes, and discovered life. Helaid on wood, slowly feeding the hungry sparks, then he took his oldplace by the table, blew out the light of the lamp and in the darkroom, shot by the flares of the igniting logs, he resigned himself towhat lay before. 

Rivers might return with Maclin. This was a new possibility anddisconcerting; still it must be met. 

"I may kill a flock of birds by one interview, " Northrup grimlythought and then drifted off on Maclin's trail. The ever-recurringwonder about the Point was intensified; he must leave that still indoubt. 

"I'll get the damned thing in my own control, if I can, " he concludedat length. "Buy it up for safety; keep still about it and watch howMaclin reacts when he knocks against the fact, eventually. That willmake things safe for the present. "

But to own the Point meant to hold on to King's Forest just when hehad decided to turn from it forever--after setting Mary-Clare free. 

The sense of a spiritual overlord for an instant daunted Northrup. Itwas humiliating to realize how he had been treading, all along, onecourse while believing he was going another. And then--it was closeupon midnight and vitality ran sluggish--Northrup became part of oneof those curious mental experiences that go far to prove how narrowthe boundary is that lies between the things we understand and thosethat are yet to be understood. 

For some moments--or was it hours?--Northrup was not conscious of timeor place; not even conscious of himself as a body; he seemed to be acondition, over which a contest of emotions swept. He was not asleep. He recalled later, that he had kept his eyes on the fire; had onceattended to it, casting on a heavy log that dimmed its ferociousardour. 

Where Jan-an had recently sat, struggling with her doubts and fears, Mary-Clare seemed to be. And yet it was not so much Mary-Clare, visually imagined, as that which had gone into the making of thewoman. 

The black, fierce night of her birth; her isolated up-bringing with aman whose mentality had overpowered his wisdom; the contact with LarryRivers; the forced marriage and the determined effort to live up to abargain made in the dark, endured in the dark. It came to Northrup, drifting as he was, that a man or woman can go through slime andtorment and really escape harm. The old, fiery furnace legend wasbased on an eternal truth; that and the lions' den! It put a new lighton that peculiar quality of Mary-Clare. She had never been burnt orwounded--not the real woman of her. That explained the maddening thingabout her--her aloofness. What would she be now when she stood alone?For she was going to stand alone! Then Northrup felt new sensationsdriving across that state which really was himself shorn of prejudiceand limitations. His relation to Mary-Clare was changed!

There were primitive forces battling for expression in his lax hour. Setting the woman free from bondage--what for?

That was the world-old call. Not free for herself, but free thatanother might claim her. He, sitting there, wanted her. She had notaltered that by her heroism. Who would help her free herself, forherself? Who would cut her loose and make no claims? Would it bepossible to help her and not put her under obligation? Could any onetrust a higher Power and go one's way unasking, refusing everything?Was there such a thing as freedom for a woman when two men were sowelded into her life?

Northrup set his teeth hard together. In the stillness he had hisfight! And just then a shuffling outside brought him back to reality. 

Rivers came in, not noticing the unlocked door; he had been drinking. Northrup's eyes, accustomed to the gloom, marked his unsteady gait;smiled as Larry, unconscious of his presence, sank into a chair--theone in which Jan-an had sat--reached out toward the lamp, struck amatch, lighted the wick and then, appalled, fixed his eyes uponNorthrup!

CHAPTER XIV

"Hello, Rivers! I'm something of a surprise, eh?"

"Hell!" The word escaped Rivers as might a cry that followed astunning blow. 

A guilty person, taken by surprise, always imagines the worst. Riversknew what he believed the man before him knew, he also believed muchthat Maclin had insinuated, or stated as fact, and he was thoroughlyfrightened and at a disadvantage. 

His nerve was shattered by the recent interview with Mary-Clare; theearlier one with Maclin. Drink was befuddling him. It was like beingin quicksand. He dared not move, but he felt himself sinking. 

"Oh! don't take it too seriously, Rivers. " Northrup felt a decentsympathy for the fellow across the table; his fear was agonizing. "Wemight as well get to an understanding without a preamble. I reckonthere are a lot of things we can pass over while we tackle the mainjob. "

"You damned----" Larry spluttered the words, but Northrup raised hishand as if staying further waste of time. He hated to take too greatan advantage of a caged man. 

"Of course, Rivers, " he said, "I wouldn't have broken into your houseand read your letters if there wasn't something rather big-sized atstake. So do not switch off on a siding--let's get through withthis. "

The tone and words were like a dash of icy water; Rivers moistened hislips and sank, mentally, into that position he loathed and yet couldnot escape. Someone was again getting control of him. He might writheand strain, but he was caught once more--caught! caught!

"In God's name, " he whispered, "who are you, anyway? What are youafter?"

"That's what I'm here to tell you, Rivers. "

"Go ahead then, go ahead!" Larry again moistened his dry lips--he feltthat he was choking. He was ready to turn state's evidence as soon ashe saw an opportunity. Debonair and clever, crafty and unfaithful, Larry had but one clear thought--he would not go behind bars again ifone avenue of escape remained open!

Maclin--Maclin's secret business, loomed high, but at that momentMary-Clare held no part in his desperate fear. 

"What do you want?"

Then, as if falling into his mood, Northrup said calmly:

"First, I want the Point. "

Larry's jaw dropped; but he felt convinced that it was Maclin or hewho faced destruction and he meant to let Maclin suffer now as Maclinhad once permitted him to suffer. If there was dirty work at the minesMaclin should pay. That was justice--Maclin had made a tool of him. 

"I don't own the Point. " Rivers heard his own voice as if from adistance. He had Mary-Clare's word that she would help him; the letterhad done its overpowering work, but he had left confession and detailuntil later. Mary-Clare had pleaded for time, and he had come from herwith his business unsettled. 

"I think after we've finished with our talk you can prevail upon yourwife to sell the Point to me and say nothing about it. "

Rivers clutched the edge of the table. To his inflamed brain Northrupseemed to know all and everything--he dared not haggle. 

"Who are you?" he repeated stammeringly. "What right have you to breakinto my place and read my papers? All I want to know is, what righthave you? I cannot be expected to--to come to terms unless I knowthat. I should think you might see that. " The bravado was so pitifuland weak that Northrup barely repressed a laugh. 

"I don't want to turn the screws, Rivers, " he said; "and of course youhave a right to an answer to your question. I want the Point because Idon't want Maclin to have it. Why he wants it, I'll find out after. I'm illegally demanding things from you, but there are times when Ibelieve such a course is justifiable in order to save everybodytrouble. You could kick me out, or try to, but you won't. You couldhave the law on me--but I don't believe you will want it. Of courseyou know that _I_ know pretty well what I am about or I would not putmyself in your power. So let's cut out the theatricals. Rivers, thisMaclin isn't any good. Just how rotten he is can be decided later. He's making a fool of you and you'll get a fool's pay. You know this. I'm going to help you, Rivers, if I can. You need all the time thereis for--getting away!"

Larry's face was livid. He was prepared to betray Maclin, but the oldpower held him captive. 

"I dare not!" he groaned. 

"Oh! yes, you dare. Brace up, Rivers. There is more than one way totackle a bad job. " Then, so suddenly that it took Rivers's breath, Northrup swept everything from sight by asking calmly: "What did youdo with that letter you manufactured?"

So utterly unexpected was this attack, so completely aside from whatseemed to be at stake, that Rivers concluded everything was known;that the very secrets of his innermost thoughts were in this man'sknowledge. The quicksands all but engulfed him. With unblinking eyeshe regarded Northrup as though hypnotized. 

"I took it to her, " he gasped. 

"Your wife?"

"Yes. "

"She does not suspect?"

"No. "

"What did your wife say when she read the letter?"

"She's going to help me out. "

"I see. All right, you're going to tell her that you want the Pointand then you're going to sell it to me. Heathcote can fix this up in afew days--the money I pay you will get you out of Maclin's reach. Ifhe makes a break for you, I'll grab him. I guess he's susceptible toscare, too, if the truth were known. "

"My God! I want a drink. " Larry looked as if he did; he rose andreeled over to the closet. 

Northrup regarded his man closely and his fingers reached out and drewthe scattered papers nearer. 

"Take only enough to stiffen you up, a swallow or two, Rivers. "

Larry obeyed mechanically and when he returned to his chair he wasfirmer. 

"Rivers, I'm going to give you a chance by way of the only decentcourse open to you--or to me. God knows, it's smudgy enough at thebest and crooked, but it's all I can muster. I don't expect you tounderstand me, or my motives--I'm going to talk as man to man, stripped bare. In the future you can work it out any way you're ableto. What I want at the present is to clear the rubbish away that'scluttering the soul of a woman. That's enough and you can draw whatdamned conclusions you want to. "

There was an ugly gleam in Larry's eyes. Men stripped bare showbrutish traits, but he felt the straps that were binding him close. 

"Go on!" he growled. 

"You are to get your wife to give you this Point, Rivers. She may notwant to, but you must force her a bit there by confessing to her thewhole damned truth from start to finish about--these!"

Both men looked at the mass of papers. 

"What all these things represent, you know. " Larry did not move; hebelieved that Northrup knew, too. Knew of that year back in the pastwhen his trick had been his ruin. "And your simply getting out ofsight won't do. Your wife has got to be free--free, do you understand?So long as she doesn't know the truth she'd have pity for you--womenare like that--she's going to know all there is to know, and thenshe'll fling you off!"

In the hidden depths of Rivers's nature there heaved and roaredsomething that, had Northrup not held the reins, would have meantbattle to the death. It was not outraged honour, love, or justice thatblinded and deafened Larry; it was simply the brutish resentment ofthe savage who, bound and gagged, watches a strong foe take all thathe had believed was his by right of conquest. At that moment he hatedMary-Clare as he hated Northrup. 

"You damned scoundrel!" he gasped. "And if I do what you suggest, whatthen?" He meant to force Northrup as far as he dared. 

A look that Rivers was never to forget spread over Northrup's face; itwas the look of one who had lived through experiences he knew he couldnot make clear. The impossibility of making Rivers comprehend himpresently overcame Northrup. He spread his hands wide and saidhopelessly:

"Nothing!"

"Like hell, nothing!" Larry was desperate and brutal. Under all hisbravado rang the note of defeat; terror, and a barren hope of escapethat he loathed while he clung to it. "I don't know what Maclin's gameis--I've played fair. Whatever you've got on him can't touch me, whenthe truth's out. " Rivers was breathing hard; the sweat stood on hisforehead. "But when it comes to selling your wife for hush money----"

"Stop that!" Northrup's face was livid. He wanted to throttle Riversbut he could not shake off the feeling of pity for the man he had sotragically in his grip. 

There was a heavy pause. It seemed weighted with tangible things. Hate; pity; distrust; helpless truth. They became alive andfluttering. Then truth alone was supreme. 

"I told you, Rivers, that I knew you couldn't believe me--youcannot. Partly this is due to life, as we men know it; partly toyour interpretation of it, but at least I owe it to you and myself tospeak the truth and let truth take care of itself. By the code thatis current in the world, I might claim all that you believe I amafter, for I think your wife might learn to love me--I know I loveher. If I set her free from you, permit her to see you as you are, inher shock and relief she might turn to me and I might take her and, God helping me, make a safe place for her; give her what herhungry soul craves, and still feel myself a good sort. That wouldbe the common story--the thing that might once have happened. But, Rivers, you don't know me and you don't know--your wife. I've onlycaught the glimmer of her, but that has caused me to grow--humble. She's got to be free, because that is justice, and you and I mustgive it to her. When you free her--it's up to me not to cage her!"Northrup found expression difficult--it all sounded so utterlyhopeless with that doubting, sneering face confronting him; andhis late distrust of himself--menacing. 

"Besides, your wife has her own ideals. That's hard for us men tounderstand. Ideals quite detached from us; from all that we might liketo believe is good for us. I have my own life, Rivers. Frankly, I wastempted to turn my back on it and with courage set sail for a newport. I had contemplated that, but I'm going back to it and, by God'shelp, live it!"

And now Northrup's face twitched. He waited a moment and then wenthopelessly on:

"What the future holds--who knows? Life is a thundering big thing, Rivers, if we play it square, and I'm going to play it square as it'sgiven me to see it. You don't believe me?" Almost a wistfulness rangin the words. Larry leaned back and laughed a hollow, ugly laugh. 

"Believe you?" he said. "Hell, no!"

"I thought you couldn't. " Northrup got up. 

Around the edges of the lowered shades, a gray, drear light gavewarning of coming day. The effect of Larry's last drink was wearingoff--he looked near the breaking point. 

"Rivers, I'll make a pact with you. Set your wife free--in my way. Ifyou do that, I'll leave the place; never see her again unless a higherpower than yours or mine decrees otherwise in the years on ahead. Takeyour last chance, man, to do the only decent thing left you to do:start afresh somewhere else. Forget it all. I know this soundsdevilish easy and I know it's devilish hard, but"--and here the ironwas driven into Rivers's consciousness--"either you or I setMary-Clare free before"--he hesitated; he wanted to give all that hehumanly could--"before another forty-eight hours. "

Larry felt the cold perspiration start on his forehead; his stomachgrew sick. 

Faint and fear-filled, he seemed to feel Maclin after him; Mary-Clareconfronting him, smileless, terrifying. On the other hand he sawfreedom; money; a place in which he could breathe, once more, withMaclin's hands off his throat and Mary-Clare's coldness forgotten. 

"I'll go to her; I'll do your hell-work, but give me another day. " Hegritted his teeth. 

"Rivers, this is Tuesday. On Friday you must be gone, and rememberthis: I've got it in my power to set your wife free and imprison youand I'll not hesitate to do it if you try any tricks. I'd advise youto keep clear of Maclin and leave whiskey alone. You'll need all thepower of concentration you can summon. " Then Northrup turned to thetable and gathered up the scattered papers. 

"What----" Larry put out a trembling hand. 

"I'll take charge of these, " Northrup said. "I am going to give themto the Heathcotes. They'll keep them with the other papers belongingto your wife. "

"Curse you!"

"Good morning, Rivers! I mean it, good morning! You won't believe thiseither, but it's so. For the sake of your wife and your little girl, Iwish you well. When you send word to the inn that you are ready forthe business deal I'll have the money for you. "

Then Northrup opened the door and stepped out into the chill light ofthe coming day. He shivered and stumbled over a mass of rubbish. Aclock struck in a quiet house. 

"Five o'clock, " counted Northrup, and plunging his hands in hispockets he made his way to Twombley's shack. 

CHAPTER XV

Kathryn Morris had her plans completed, and if the truth were knownshe had never felt better pleased with herself--and she was notutterly depraved, either. 

She was far more the primitive female than was Mary-Clare. She wassimply claiming what she devoutly believed was her own; reclaiming it, rather, for she sagely concluded that on this runaway trip Northrupwas in great danger and only the faith and love of a good woman couldsave him! Kathryn believed herself good and noble. 

Mary-Clare had her Place in which she had been fed through manylonely, yearning years, but Kathryn had no such sanctuary. Thedwelling-places of her fellow creatures were good enough for her andshe never questioned the codes that governed them--though sometimesshe evaded them!

After her talk with Helen Northrup, Kathryn did a deal of thinking, but she moved cautiously. She had never forgotten the address onNorthrup's letter to his mother and she believed he was still there. She again looked up road maps, located King's Forest, and made someclever calculations. She could go in the motor. The autumn was justthe time for such a trip. It would be easy to satisfy her aunt, Kathryn very well knew. The mere statement that she was going to meetNorthrup and return with him would account for everything and relievethe situation existing at present with Sandy Arnold in daily evidence. "And if Brace is not playing in some messy puddle in his old Forest, Ican get on his trail from there, " she reasoned secretly. 

But, for some uncanny cause, Kathryn was confident that Northrup _was_at his first address. It was so like him to creep into a hole and bevery dramatic and secretive. It was his temperament, Kathryn felt, and she steeled herself against him. 

On the morning that Northrup staggered over the rubbish of Hunter'sPoint toward Twombley's, Kathryn took her place in her limousine--hernice little travelling bag at her feet--and viewed with complacencythe back of her Japanese chauffeur who had absorbed and digested allher directions and would be, henceforth, a well-oiled, safe-runningpart of the machinery, without curiosity or opinions. 

They stopped for luncheon at a comfortable road-house, rested for anhour, and then went on. It was mid-afternoon when the yellow house atthe crossroads made its appeal to be questioned. 

"I'll run in and ask the way, " Kathryn explained, and slowly went upto the door that once opened so humorously to Northrup's touch. Againthe door responded, and a bit startled, Kathryn found herself in thepresence of a dull-faced girl seated by the table apparently doingnothing. 

"I beg your pardon. Really, I did knock--the door just opened. "Kathryn was confused and stepped back. 

In all her dun-coloured life Jan-an had never seen anything sowonderful as the girl on the doorstep. She was not at all sure butthat she was one of Noreen's fiction creatures. There was a story thatNorthrup had told Noreen about Eve's Other Children, and for aninstant Jan-an estimated the likelihood of the stranger being one--shewasn't altogether wrong, either!

"What you want?" she asked cautiously. Jan-an was, as she put it, "allskew-y, " for the work of the evening before had brought her to a moreconfused state than usual. 

The world was widening--she included Northrup now in her circle ofprotection and she wasn't sure what Eve's Other Children were capableof doing. 

"I want to find out the way to the inn, Heathcote Inn. " Kathryn smiledalluringly. 

"Why don't you look at the sign?" There was witchery about that sign, certainly. 

"I did not see the sign. Please excuse me. " Then, "Do you happen toknow if there is a Mr. Northrup at the inn?"

"He sleeps there!" Jan-an looked stupid but honest. "Days, he takes tothe woods. "

Jan-an meant, as soon as the unearthly visitor departed, to findNorthrup and give the alarm. Kathryn thanked the girl sweetly andreturned to her car. As she did so she saw the sign-board as Northruphad before her, and felt a bit foolish, but she also recalled thatNorthrup might be in the woods!

"You may go on to the inn, " she said to her man, "and make arrangements. I am going to remain over night and start back early to-morrowmorning. Explain that I am walking and will be there shortly. "

The quiet man at the door of the car touched his cap and took hisplace at the wheel. 

This was to Kathryn a thrilling adventure. The silence and beauty wereas novel as any experience she had ever known, and her pulsesquickened. The solitude of the woods was not restful to her, but itstimulated every sense. The leaves were dropping from the trees; thesunlight slanted through the lacy boughs in exquisite design, and thesky was as blue as midsummer. There was a smell of wood smoke in thecrisp air; the feel of the sweet leaves, underfoot, was delightful. Kathryn "scruffed" along, unmindful of her high heels and thin silkstockings. She did not know that she _could_ be so excited. 

She crossed the road and turned to the hill. An impish impulse swayedher. If she came upon Northrup! Well, how romantic and thrilling itwould be! She fancied his surprise; his----Here she paused. Would itbe joy or consternation that would betray Northrup?

Now, as it happened, Mary-Clare had given her morning up to thebusiness of the Point and she was worn and super-sensitive. Anunderlying sense of hurry was upon her. When she had done all that shecould do, she meant to go to her Place and lay her tired soul open tothe influence that flooded the quiet sanctuary. All day this hadsustained her. She would leave Noreen at the inn; send Jan-an backthere, and would, after her hour in the cabin, seek Larry out and givehim what he asked--the Point. 

Through the hours at the inn she had feared Northrup's appearance, butwhen she learned that he had been away all night, she feared _for_him. Her uneventful days seemed gone forever, and yet Mary-Clare knewthat soon--oh, very soon--there would be to-morrows, just plainto-morrows running one into another. 

She was distressed, too, that Larry was to have the Point. Aunt Pollyhad shaken her head over it and remarked that it seemed like droppingthe Pointers into Maclin's mouth. But Peter reassured her. 

"I see your side, child, " he comforted. "What the old doc said _goes_with you. "

"But it was Larry, not the doctor, as specified the Point, " Pollyinsisted. 

"All right, all right, " Peter patted Polly's shoulder. "Have it yourown way, but I see it at _this_ angle. Give Larry what he wants;Maclin has Larry, anyway, but if he keeps him here where we can watchwhat's going on, I'll feel easier. He'll show his hand on the Point, take my word for it. Larry gallivanting is one thing, Larry withTwombley and Peneluna, not to mention us all, is another. You let go, Mary-Clare, and see what happens. "

"Well, I hold"--Aunt Polly was curiously stubborn--"that Larry Riversdon't want that Point any more than a toad wants a pocket. "

"All right, all right!" Peter grew red and his hair sprang up. "Put itas you choose. This may bring things to a head. I swear the wholeworld is like a throbbing and thundering boil--it's got to bust, theworld and King's Forest. I say, then, let 'em bust and have done withit. "

At four o'clock the business of the day was over and Mary-Clare wasready to start. Then Noreen, with the perversity of children, complicated matters. 

"Motherly, let me go, too, " she pleaded. 

"Childie, Mother wants to be alone. "

"Why for?"

"Because, well, I must think. "

"Then let me stay home with Jan-an. "

"Dearie, I'm going to send Jan-an back here. "

"Why for?"

"Mary-Clare, " Peter broke in, "that child is perishing for apaddling. "

Noreen ran to Peter and hugged him. 

"You old grifferty-giff!" she whispered, falling into her absurdjargon, "just gifferting. "

Then she went back to her mother and said impishly:

"I know! You don't want me to see my father!" Then, pointing a fingerat Mary-Clare, she demanded: "Why didn't you pick a nice father for mewhen you were picking?"

The irrelevancy of the question only added to its staggering effect. Mary-Clare looked hopelessly at her child. 

"I didn't have any choice, Noreen, " she said. 

"You mean God gave him to you?"

"See here, Noreen"--Polly Heathcote rose to the call--"stop pesteringyour mother with silly talk. Come along with me, we'll make a mess oftaffy. "

"All right!" Noreen turned joyously to this suggestion, but paused toadd: "If God gave my father to us, I s'pose we must make the best ofit. God knows what He is doing--Jan-an says He even knew what He wasdoing when He nearly spoiled her. "

With this, Aunt Polly dragged Noreen away and Mary-Clare left thehouse haunted by what Noreen had said. Children can weave themselvesinto the scheme of life in a vivid manner, and this Noreen had done. In her dealings with Larry, Mary-Clare knew she must not overlookNoreen. 

Now, if fools rush in where angels fear to tread, surely they oftenrush to their undoing. Kathryn followed the trail to the cabin in thewoods, breathlessly and in momentary danger of breaking her ankles, for she teetered painfully on her French heels and humorously wishedthat when the Lord was making hills He had made them all down-grade;but at last she came in sight of the vine-covered shack and stoodstill to consider. 

It was characteristic of Kathryn that she never doubted her intuitionsuntil she was left high and dry by their incapacity to hold her up. 

"Ho! ho!" she murmured. "So _this_ is where he burrows? Anotheredition of the East Side tenement room where he hid while writing hisabominable book!"

Kathryn went nearer, stepping carefully--Northrup might be inside! No;the strange room was empty! Kathryn recalled the one visit she hadmade to the tenement while Northrup was writing. There had been aterrible woman with a mop outside the door there who would not let herpass; who had even cast unpleasant suggestions at her--suggestionsthat had made Kathryn's cheeks burn. 

She had never told Northrup about that visit; she would not tell himabout this one, either, unless her hand were forced. In case he cameupon her, she saw, vividly, herself in a dramatic act--she would be abeautiful picture of tender girlhood nestling in his environment, ledto him by sore need and loving intuition. 

Kathryn, thus reinforced by her imagination, went boldly in, sat downby the crude table, smiled at the Bible lying open before her--thenshe raised her eyes to Father Damien. The face was familiar andKathryn concluded it must be a reproduction of some famous painting ofthe Christ!

That, and the Bible, made the girl smile. Temperament was insanity, nothing less!

Kathryn looked about for evidences of Northrup's craft. 

"I suppose he takes his precious stuff away with him. Afraid of firesor wild beasts. "

This latter thought wasn't pleasant and Kathryn turned nervously tothe door. As she did so her arm pushed the Bible aside and there, disclosed to her ferret glance, were the pages of Northrup'smanuscript, duplicate sheets, that Mary-Clare had been rereading. 

"Ho! ho!" Kathryn spread them before her and read greedily--notsympathetically--but amusedly. 

There were references to eyes, hair, expressions; even "mud-stainedbreeches. " With elbows on the table, daintily gloved hands supportingher chin, Kathryn read and thought and wove _her_ plot with Northrup'swords, but half understood, lying under her gaze. 

Suddenly Kathryn's eyes widened--her ears caught a sound. Never whileshe lived was Kathryn Morris to forget her sensations of that moment, for they were coloured and weighted by events that followed rapidly, dramatically. 

In the doorway stood Mary-Clare, a very embodiment of the girldescribed in the pages on the table. The tall, slim, boyish figure inrough breeches, coat, and cap, was a staggering apparition. The beautyof the surprised face did not appeal to Kathryn, but she was not forone instant deceived as to the sex of the person on the threshold, andher none-too-pure mind made a wild and dangerous leap to a mostunstable point of disadvantage. 

The girl in the doorway in some stupefying fashion represented the"Fight" and the "Puddle" of Northrup's adventure. If Kathryn thoughtat all, it was to the effect that she had known from start to finishthe whole miserable business, and she acted upon this unconsciousconclusion with never a doubt in her mind. The two women, in silence, stared at each other for one of those moments that can never bemeasured by rule. During the palpitating silence they were driventogether, while yet separated by a great space. 

Kathryn's conclusion drove her on the rocks; Mary-Clare's startled herinto a state of clear vision. She recovered her poise first. Shesmiled her perturbing smile; she came in and sat down and saidquietly:

"I was surprised. I am still. "

Kathryn felt a wave of moral repugnance rise to her assistance. Theclothes might disguise the real state of affairs--but the voicebetrayed much. This was no crude country girl; here was somethingrather more difficult to handle; one need not be pitiful andcondoning; one must not flinch. 

"You expected, I suppose, to find Mr. Northrup?"

When Kathryn was deeply moved she spoke out of the corner of hermouth. It was an unpleasant trick--her lips became hard and twisted. 

"Oh! no, I did not, nor anyone else. " The name seemed to hurt andMary-Clare leaned back. "May I ask who you are?" she said. Mary-Clarewas indignant at she hardly knew what; hurt, too, by what wassteadying her. She knew beyond doubt that the woman near her was oneof Northrup's world!

"I am Miss Morris. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Northrup. "

It were better to cut deep while cutting, and Kathryn's nerve was nowset to her task. She unrelentingly eyed her victim. She went on:

"I can see how this must shock you. I sent my car on to the inn. Iwanted a walk and--well! I came upon this place. Fate is such astrange thing. "

Kathryn ran her words along rather wildly. The silence of hercompanion, the calm way in which she was regarding her, were having anunpleasant effect. When Kathryn became aware of her own voice she wasapt to talk too much--she grew confidential. 

"Mr. Northrup's mother is ill. She needs him. The way I have known allthis right along is simply a miracle. "

How much more Kathryn might have said she was never to know, forMary-Clare raised a hand as though to stay the inane torrent. 

"What can you possibly mean, " she asked, and her eyes darkened, "byknowing _this_ all along? I do not understand--what have you known?"

Then Kathryn sank in a morass. 

"Oh! do be sensible, " she said, and her voice was hard and cold. "Youmust see I have found you out--why pretend? When a man like Mr. Northrup leaves home and forgets his duties--does not even write, buries himself in such a place as this and stays on--what does itmean? What can it possibly mean?"

Mary-Clare was spared much of what Kathryn was creating because shewas so far away--so far, far away from the true significance of itall. She was seeing Northrup as Kathryn had never seen him; wouldnever see him. She realized his danger. It was all so sudden andrevolting. Only recently had she imagined his past, his environment;she had taken him as a wonderful experience in her barren, sterilelife, but now she considered him as threatened from an unsuspectedsource. A natural revulsion from the type that Kathryn Morrisrepresented for a moment oppressed her, but she dared not think ofthat nor of her own right to resent the hateful slurs cast upon her. She must do what she could for Northrup--do it more or less blindly, crudely, but she must go as she saw light and was given time. 

"You are terribly wrong about--everything. " Mary-Clare spoke quietlybut her words cut like bits of hail. "If you are going, as you say, tobe Mr. Northrup's wife, you must try and believe what I am saying nowfor your own sake, but more for his. "

Kathryn tried to say "Insolence!" but could not; she merely sat backin her chair and flashed an angry glance that Mary-Clare did notheed. 

"Mr. Northrup is writing a beautiful book. The book is himself. Hedoes not realize how much it is----"

"Indeed!" Kathryn did utter the one word, then added: "I suppose he'sread it to you?"

"Yes, he has. "

"Here, I suppose? By the fire, alone with you?"

"No, under the trees, out there. "

Mary-Clare turned and glanced at the pure, open woods. "It is abeautiful book, " she repeated. 

"Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous. " Kathrynlaughed impatiently. "We'll take for granted the beauty of the book. "

"No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this--he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurtthe soul of him; the part of him that no one--not even you who will behis wife--has a right to hurt or touch. You must make him _believe_ inwomen. Oh! I wish I could make you see--that was the matter with hisbeautiful book--I can understand now. He did not know women; but ifyou believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him knowthe truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong--it never occurredto me before--the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, becauseeverything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believeme! You must! Tell me that you do!"

Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from aflood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of thesituation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reducedthe matter to the deadly commonplace. 

"No, I do not believe you, " she said bitterly. "I am a woman of theworld. I hate to say what I must, but there is so little time now, andthere will be no time later on, so you'll have to take what you havebrought upon yourself. This whole thing is pitifully cheap andordinary--the only gleam of difference in it is that you are ratherunusual--more dangerous on that account. I simply cannot account foryou, but it doesn't really interest me. When Mr. Northrup writes hisbooks, he always does what he has done now. It's rather brutal andcold-blooded but so it is. He has used you--you have been material forhim. If there is nothing worse"--Kathryn flushed here--"it is becauseI have come in time. May I ask you now to leave me here in Mr. Northrup's"--Kathryn sought the proper word--"study?" she said lamely. "I will rest awhile; try to compose myself. If he comes I will meethim here. If not, I will go to the inn later. "

Kathryn rose. So did Mary-Clare. The two girls faced each other. Thetable lay between them, but it seemed the width of the whole world. 

"I would have helped you and him, if I could. " Mary-Clare's voicesounded like the "ghost wind" seeking wearily, in a lost way, rest. "But I see that I cannot. This is not Mr. Northrup's Place--it ismine. I built it myself--no foot but mine--and now yours--has everentered here. I have always come here to--to think; to read. I wonderif I ever will be able to again, for you have done something verydreadful to it. You will do it to his life unless God keeps you fromit. " Mary-Clare was thinking aloud, taking no heed of her companion. 

"How dare you!" Kathryn's face flamed and then turned pale as death. 

Mary-Clare was moving toward the door. When she reached it she stoodas a hostess might while a guest departed. 

"Please go!" she said simply, but it had the effect of taking Kathrynby the shoulders and forcing her outside. With flaming face, dyeingthe white anger, she flung herself along. Once outside she turned, looking cheap and mean for all the trappings of her station in life. 

"I want you to understand, " she said, "that you are dealing with awoman of the world, not a sentimental fool. "

Mary-Clare inclined her head. She did not speak. She watched heruninvited guest go down the trail, pass out of sight. Then she wentback to her chair to recover from the shock that had dazed her. 

The atmosphere of the little cabin could not long be polluted by sobrief an experience as had just occurred, and presently Mary-Clare wasenfolded by the old comfort and vision. 

She could weigh and estimate things now, and this she did bravely, justly. Like Northrup in Larry's cabin the night before, she becamemore a sensitive plate upon which pictures flashed, than a personalitythat was thinking and suffering. Such things as had now happened toher, she knew, happened in books. Always books, books, for Mary-Clare, and the old doctor's philosophy that gave strength but no assurance. The actual relation existing between Northrup and herself became asolid and immovable fact. She had not fully accepted it before;neither had he. They had played with it as they had the golden hoursthat they would not count or measure. 

Nothing mattered but the truth. Mary-Clare knew that the wonderfulthing had had no part in her decision as to Larry--others would notbelieve that, but she must not be swayed; she knew she had taken hersteps faithfully as she had seen them--she must not stumble nowbecause of any one, anything. 

"It's what you do to love that counts!" Almost fiercely Mary-Claregrasped this. And in that moment Noreen, Northrup's mother, even Larryand the girl who had just departed, put in their claim. She mustconsider them; they were all part with Northrup and her. 

"There is nothing for me to do but wait. " Mary-Clare seemed to hearherself speaking the words. "I can do nothing now but wait. But I willnot fear the Truth. "

The bared Truth stood revealed; before it Mary-Clare did not flinch. 

"This is what it has all meant. The happiness, the joy, the strangeintensity of common things. "

Then Mary-Clare bowed her head upon her folded arms while the warmsunlight came into the doorway and lay full upon her. She was absorbedin something too big to comprehend. She felt as if she was being borninto--a woman! The birth-pains were wrenching; she could not graspanything beyond them, but she counted every one and gloried in it. 

The Big Thing that poor Peneluna had known was claiming Mary-Clare. Itcould not be denied; it might be starved but it would not die. 

Somewhere, on beyond----

But oh! Mary-Clare was young, young, and her beyond was not the beyondof Peneluna; or if it were, it lay far, far across a desert stretch. 

CHAPTER XVI

Northrup had cast himself upon Twombley's hospitality with the plea ofbusiness. He outlined a programme and demanded silence. 

"I'm going to buy this Point, " he confided, "and I'm going to go away, Twombley. I'm going to leave things exactly as they are until--well, perhaps always. Just consider yourself my superintendent. "

Twombley blinked. 

"Snatching hot cakes?" he asked. "Spoiling Maclin's meal?"

"Something like that, yes. I don't know what all this means, Twombley, but I'm going to take no chances. I want to be in a position to hitsquare if anything needs hitting. If no one knows that I'm in on thisdeal, I'll be better pleased--but I want you to keep me informed. "

Twombley nodded. 

About noon Northrup departed, but he did not reach the inn untilnearly dark. 

Heathcote and Polly had been tremendously agitated by the appearanceof the Morris car and the Japanese. They were in a sad state ofexcitement. The vicious circle of unbelievable happenings seemed to bedrawing close. 

"I guess I'll put the Chinese"--Peter was not careful as toparticulars--"out in the barn to sleep, " he said, but Polly shook herhead. 

"No, keep him where you can watch 'im, " she cautioned. "There'll be nosleeping for me while this unchristian business is afoot. Peter, whatdo you suppose the creature eats?"

"I ain't studying about that"--Peter shook with nervous laughter--"butI'm going to chain Ginger up. I've heard these Chinese-ers lean toanimals. "

"Nonsense, brother! But do you suppose the young woman what's on herway here is a female Chinese?"

"The Lord knows!" Peter bristled. "I wish Northrup would fetch up andhandle these items of his. My God! Polly, we have been real softtoward this young feller. Appearances and our dumb feelings aboutfolks may have let us all in for some terrible results. Maclin'skeener than us, perhaps. "

"Now, brother"--Polly was bustling around--"this is no time to set mynerves on edge. Here we be; here all this mess is. We best holdtight. "

So Peter and Polly "held tight" while inwardly they feared that King'sForest was in deadly peril and that they had let the unsuspectingpeople in for who could tell--what?

About five o'clock Kathryn came upon the scene. Her late encounter hadleft her careless as to her physical appearance; she was a bitbedraggled and her low shoes and silk hose--a great deal of the lattershowing--were evidences against her respectability. 

"I'm Mr. Northrup's fiancée, " she explained, and sank into a chair bythe hearth. 

Aunt Polly did not know what she meant, but in that she belonged toNorthrup, she must be recognized, and plainly she was not Chinese!

Peter fixed his little, sparkling eyes on his guest and his hair rosean inch while his face reddened. 

"Perhaps you better go to your room, " he suggested as he might to anaughty child. He wanted to get the girl out of his sight and he hatedto see Polly waiting upon her. Kathryn detected the tone and it rousedher. No man ever made an escape from Kathryn when he used that note!Her eyes filled with tears; her lips quivered. 

"Mr. Northrup's mother is dying, " she faltered; a shade more or lessdid not count now--"help me to be brave and calm for his sake. Pleasebe my friend as you have been his!"

This was a wild guess but it served its purpose. Peter felt like abrute and Aunt Polly was all a-tremble. 

"Dear me!" she said, hovering over the girl, "somehow we never thoughtabout Brace's folks and all that. Just you come upstairs and rest andwash. I'll fetch you some nice hot tea. It's terrible--his motherdying--and you having to break it to him. " Polly led Kathryn away andPeter sat wretchedly alone. 

When Polly returned he was properly contrite and set to work assistingwith the evening meal. Polly was silent for the most part, but she wasdeeply concerned. 

"She says she's going to marry Brace, " she confided. 

"Well, I reckon if she says she is, she is!" Peter grunted. "She lookscapable of doing it. "

"Peter, you mustn't be hard. "

"I hope to the Lord I can be hard. " Peter looked grim. "It's beingsoft and easy as has laid us open to--what?"

"Peter, you give me the creeps. "

Peter and Polly were in the kitchen when Kathryn came downstairs. Shehad had a bath and a nap. She had resorted to her toilet aids and shelooked pathetically lovely as she crouched by the hearth in the emptyroom and waited for Northrup's return. Every gesture she made bespokethe sweet clinging woman bent on mercy's task. 

She again saw herself in a dramatic scene. Northrup would open thedoor--that one! Kathryn fixed her eyes on the middle door--he wouldlook at her--reel back; call her name, and she would rush to him, fallin his arms; then control herself, lead him to the fire and break thesad news to him gently, sweetly. He would kneel at her feet, bury hisface in her lap----

But while Kathryn was mentally rehearsing this and thrilling at thesuccess of her wonderful intuitions, Northrup was striding along theroad toward the inn, his head bent forward, his hands in his pockets. He was feeling rather the worse for wear; the consequences of hisdeeds and promises were hurtling about him like tangible, bruisingthings. 

He was never to see Mary-Clare again! That had sounded fine and noblewhen it meant her freedom from Larry Rivers, but what a beastly thingit seemed, viewed from Mary-Clare's side. What would she think ofhim? After those hours of understanding--those hours weighted withhappiness and delight that neither of them dared to call by their truenames, so beautiful and fragile were they! Those hours had been likebubbles in which all that was _real_ was reflected. They had breathedupon them, watched them, but had not touched them frankly. Andnow----

How ugly and ordinary it would all seem if he left without one lastword!

The past few weeks might become a memory that would enrich and ennobleall the years on ahead or they might, through wrong interpretation, embitter and corrode. 

Northrup was prepared to make any sacrifice for Mary-Clare; he hadachieved that much, but he chafed at the injustice to his best motivesif he carried out, literally, what he had promised. He was face toface with one of those critical crises where simple right seemedinadequate to deal with complex wrong. 

To leave Mary-Clare free to live whatever life held for her, withoutbitterness or regret, was all he asked. As for himself, Northrup hadagreed to go back--he thought, as he plunged along, in Manly'sterms--to his slit in the wall and keep valiantly to it in the future. But he, no matter what occurred, would always have a wider, purervision; while Mary-Clare, the one who had made this possible, would----Oh! it was an unbearable thought. 

And just then a rustling in the bushes by the road brought him to astandstill. 

"Who's that?" he asked roughly. 

Jan-an came from behind a clump of sumach. A black shawl over her headand falling to her feet made her seem part of the darkness. Northrupturned his flashlight upon her and only her vague white face wasvisible. 

"What's up?" he asked, as Jan-an came nearer. The girl no longerrepelled him--he had seen behind her mask, had known her faithfulnessand devotion to them he must leave forever. Northrup was still youngenough to believe in that word--forever. 

Jan-an came close. 

"Say, there's a queer lot to the inn. They're after you!"

Northrup started. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. 

"A toot cart with an image setting up the front--and a dressy piece inthe glass cage behind. "

So vivid was the picture that Jan-an portrayed that Northrup did notneed to question. 

"Lord! but she was togged out, " Jan-an went on, "but seemed like Ifelt she had black wings hid underneath. " Poor Jan-an's flights offancy always left her muddled. "If you want that I should tell heranything while you light out----"

Northrup laughed. 

"There, there, Jan-an, " he comforted. "Why, this is all right. Youwanted me to know, in case--oh! but you're a good sort! But seehere, everything is safe and sound and"--Northrup paused, thensuddenly--"to-morrow, Jan-an, I want you to go to--to Mary-Clare andtell her I left--good-bye for her and Noreen. "

"Yer--yer going away?" Jan-an writhed under the flashlight. 

"Yes, Jan-an. "

"Why----" The girl burst into tears. Northrup tried to comfort her. "I've been so stirred, " the girl sobbed. "I had feelin's----"

"So have I, Jan-an. So have I. "

They stood in the dark for a moment and then, because there wasnothing more to say--Northrup went to meet Kathryn Morris. 

He went in at one of the end doors, not the middle one, and sodisturbed Kathryn's stage setting. He opened and closed the door soquietly, walked over to the fire so rapidly, that to rise and carryout her programme was out of the question, so Kathryn remained on thehearth and Northrup dropped into the chair beside her. 

"Well, little girl, " he said--people always lowered their voices whenspeaking to Kathryn--"what is it?"

Northrup was braced for bad news. Of course Manly had given hisaddress to Kathryn--it was something beyond the realm of letters andtelegrams that had occurred; Kathryn had been sent! That Manly was notprime mover in this matter could not occur to Northrup. 

"Is it Mother?" he whispered. 

Kathryn nodded and her easy tears fell. 

"Dead?" The word cut like a knife and Kathryn shivered. For the firstshe doubted herself; felt like a bungler. 

"Oh! no, Brace; Brace, do not look like that--really--really--listento me. "

Northrup breathed heavily. 

"An accident?" he demanded. A hard note rang in his words. This turnof affairs was rather more than Kathryn had arranged for. It was likefinding herself on the professional stage when she had bargained foran amateur performance. 

She ran to cover, abandoning all her well-laid plans. She knew theadvantage of being the first in a new situation, so she hurriedthere. 

"Brace dear, I--you know I have been bearing it all alone and I dared_not_ take any further responsibility even to--to shield you, dearest, and your work. "

By some dark magic Northrup felt himself a selfish brute; a deserterof duty. 

"Kathryn, " he said, and his eyes fell, "please tell me. I suppose Ihave been unforgivable, but--well, there's nothing to say!" Northrupbowed his head to take whatever blow might fall. 

"I may be all wrong, dear. You know, when one is alone, is theconfidante of another, one as precious as your mother is to you andme, it unnerves one--I did not know what to do. It may not beanything--but how could I know?"

"You went to Manly?" Northrup asked this with a sense of relief whileat the same time Kathryn had risen to a plane so high that he felthumbled before her. He was still dazed and in the dark, but all wasnot lost!

While he had been following his selfish ends, Kathryn had stood guardover all that was sacred to him. He had never before realized thestrength and purpose of the pretty child near him. He reached out andlaid his hand on the bowed head. 

"No, dear, that was it. Your mother would not let me--she thought onlyof you; you must not be worried, just now--oh! you know how she is!But, dearest, she has had, for years, a strange and dreadful pain. Itdoes not come often, but when it does, it is very, very bad--it comesmostly at night--so she has been able to hide it from you; the dayfollowing she always spoke of it as a headache--you know how we havesympathized with her--but never were alarmed?"

Northrup nodded. He recalled those headaches. 

"Well, a week ago she called me to come to her--she really lookedquite terrible, Brace. I was so frightened, but of course I had tohide my feelings. She says--oh! Brace, she says there is--way back inthe family----"

"Nonsense!" Northrup got up and paced the floor. "Manly has told methat was sheer nonsense. Go on, Kathryn. "

"Well, dear, she was weak and _so_ pitiful and she--she confidedthings to me that I am sure she would not have, had she been herbrave, dear self. "

"What kind of things?"

It was horrible, but Northrup was conscious of being in a net wherethe meshes were wide enough to permit of his seeing freedom bututterly cutting him off from it. 

What he had subconsciously hoped the night before, what his underlyingstrength had been founded upon, he would never be able to know, fornow he felt every line of escape from, heaven knew what, closing uponhim; permitting no choice, wiping out all the security of happiness;leaving--chaff. For a moment, he forgot the question he had justasked, but Kathryn was struggling to answer it. 

"About you and me, Brace. Oh! help me. It is so hard; so hard, dear, to tell you, but you must realize that because of the things she said, I estimated the seriousness of her condition and I cannot sparemyself! Brace, she knows that you and I--have been putting off ourmarriage because of her!"

There was one mad moment when Northrup felt he was going to laugh; butinstantly the desire fled and ended in something approaching a groan. 

"Go on!" he said quietly, and resumed his seat by the fire. 

"I think we have been careless rather than thoughtful, dear. Olderpeople can be hurt by such kindness--if they are wonderful and proudlike your mother. She cannot bear to--to be an obstacle. "

"An obstacle? Good Lord!" Northrup jammed a log to its place and sorelieved his feelings. 

"Well, my dearest, you must see the position I was placed in?"

"Yes, Kathryn, I do. You're a brick, my dear, but--how did you knowwhere I was, if you did not go to Manly?"

Kathryn looked up, and all the childlike confidence and sweetness shecould summon lay in her lovely eyes. 

"Dearest, I remembered the address on the letter you sent to yourmother. Because I wanted to keep this secret about our fear fromher--I came alone and I knew that people here could direct me if youhad gone away. I was prepared to follow you--anywhere!"--Kathrynsuddenly recalled her small hand-bag upstairs--"Brace, I wasfrightened, bearing it alone. I _had_ to have you. Oh! Brace. "

Northrup found the girl in his arms. His face was against hers--hertears were falling and she was sobbing helplessly. The net, it was apurse net now, drew close. 

"Brace, Brace, we must make her happy, together. I will shareeverything with you--I have been so heedless; so selfish--but my lifeis now yours and--hers!"

Guilt filled the aroused soul of Northrup. As far as in him layhe--surrendered! With characteristic swiftness and thoroughness heclosed his eyes and made his dash!

"Kathryn, you mean you will marry me; you will--do this for me andher?"

"Yes. "

Just then Aunt Polly came into the room. Her quick, keen eye took inthe scene and her gentle heart throbbed in sympathy. She came over tothe two and hovered near them, patting Northrup's shoulder andKathryn's head indiscriminately. She crooned over them and finally gotthem to the dining-room and the evening meal. 

An early start for the morrow was planned, and by nine o'clock Kathrynwent to her room. 

Northrup was restless and nervous. There was much to be done before heleft. He must see Rivers and finish that business--it might have to behurried, but he felt confident that by raising Larry's price he couldsecure his ends. And then, because of the finality in the turn ofevents, Northrup desperately decided upon a compromise with hisconscience. Strange as it now seemed he had, before his talk withKathryn, believed that he was done forever with his experience, but herealized, as he reconsidered the matter, that hope, a strange, blindhope, had fluttered earlier but that now it was dead; dead!

Since that was the case, he would do for a dead man--Northrupgruesomely termed himself that--what the dead man could not do forhimself. Surely no one, not even Rivers, would deny him that poorcomfort, if all were known. He would write a note to Mary-Clare, goearly in the morning to that cabin on the hill and leave it--where hereye would fall upon it when she entered. 

That the cabin was sacred to Mary-Clare he very well knew; that sheshared it with no one, he also knew; but she would forgive histrespassing, since it was his only way in honour out--out of herlife. 

Very well, then! At nine-thirty he decided to go over to the Pointagain and, if he found Larry, finish that business. If Larry were notthere, he would lie in wait for him and gain his ends. So he preparedfor another night away from the inn, if necessary. 

Aunt Polly, hovering on the outskirts of all that was going on, materialized, as he was about leaving the house like a thief of thenight. 

"Now, son, must you go out?" she pleaded, her spectacles awry on thetop of her head, her eyes unnaturally bright. 

"Yes, Aunt Polly. " Northrup paused, the knob of the door in hand, andlooked down at the little creature. 

"Is it fair, son?" Aunt Polly was savagely thinking of the gossip ofthe Forest--she wildly believed that Northrup might be going to theyellow house. The hurry of departure might blind him to folly. 

"Fair--fair to whom, Aunt Polly?" Northrup's brows drew together. 

"To yourself, son. Bad news and the sudden going away----" the oldvoice choked. It was hard to use an enemy's weapon against one's own, even to save him. 

"Aunt Polly, look at me. " This was spoken sternly. 

"I _am_ looking, son, I am looking. " And so she was. 

"I'm going out, because I must, if I am to do my duty by others. Youmust trust me. And I want you to know that all my future life will bethe stronger, the safer, because of my weeks here with you all! I cameto you with no purpose--just a tired, half-sick man, but things weretaken out of my hands. I've been used, and I don't know myself justyet for what. I'm going to have faith and you must have it--I'm withyou, not against you. Will you kiss me, Aunt Polly?"

From his height Northrup bent to Polly's littleness, but she reachedup to him with her frail tender arms and seemed to gather him into herdenied motherhood. Without a word she kissed him and--let him go!

Northrup found Rivers in his shack. He looked as if he had beensitting where Northrup left him the night before. He was unkempt andhaggard and there were broken bits of food on the untidy table, andstains of coffee. 

"I'm going away, Rivers, " Northrup explained, sitting opposite Larry. "I couldn't wait to get word from you--my mother is ill. I must putthis business through in a sloppy way. It may need a lot of legalpatching after, but I'll take my chances. Heathcote has straightenedout your wife's part--the Point is yours. I've made sure of that. NowI'm going to write out something that I think will hold--anyway, Iwant your signature to it and to a receipt for money I will give you. What we both know will after all be the real deed, for if you don'tkeep your bargain, I'll come back. "

Larry stared dully, insolently at Northrup but did not speak. Hewatched Northrup writing at the table where the food lay scattered. Then, when the clumsy document was finished, Northrup pushed it towardRivers. 

"Sign there!" he said. 

"I'll sign where I damn please. " Larry showed his teeth. "How much yougoing to give me for my woman?"

For a moment the sordid room seemed to be swirling in a flood of redand yellow. Northrup got on his feet. 

"I don't want to kill you, " he muttered, "but you deserve it. "

"Ah, have it your own way, " Larry cringed. The memory of the nightbefore steadied him. He'd been drinking heavily and was stronger--andweaker, in consequence. 

"How much is--is the price for the Point?" he mumbled. 

Northrup mastered his rage and sat down. Feeling sure that Riverswould dicker he said quietly:

"A thousand dollars. "

"Double that!" Rivers's eyes gleamed. A thousand dollars would takehim out of Maclin's reach, but all that he could get beyond would keephim there longer. 

"Rivers, I expected this, so I'll name my final price. Fifteenhundred! Hurry up and sign that paper. "

Larry signed it unsteadily but clearly. 

"Have you seen your wife, Rivers?" Northrup passed a cheque across thetable. 

"I'm going to see her to-morrow--I have up to Friday, you know. "

"Yes, that's true. I must go to-morrow morning, but I'll make sure youkeep to your bargain. "

"And--you?" Rivers's lips curled. 

"I have kept my bargain. "

"And you'll get away without talking to my wife?"

Northrup's eyes grew dark. 

"Yes. But, Rivers, if I find that you play loose in any way, by God, I'll settle with you if I have to scour the earth for you. Remember, she is to know everything--everything, and after that--you're to getout--quick. "

"I'll get out all right. "

"I hope, just because of your wife and child, Rivers, that you'llstraighten up; that something will get a grip on you that will pullyou up--not down further. No man has a right to put the burden of hisright living or his going to hell on a woman's conscience, but womenlike your wife often have to carry that load. You've got that in youwhich, put to good purpose, might----"

"Oh! cut it out. " Rivers could bear no more. "I'm going to get out ofyour way--what more in hell do you want?"

"Nothing. " Northrup rose, white-lipped and stern. "Nothing. We areboth of us, Rivers, paying a big price for a woman's freedom. It'sonly just--we ought not to want anything more. "

With that Northrup left the shack and retraced his lonely way to theinn. 

CHAPTER XVII

Northrup arose the next morning before daylight and tried to write anote to Mary-Clare. It was the most difficult thing he had everundertaken. If he could speak, it would be different, but the writtenword is so rigid. 

This last meeting had been so distraught, they had beaten about so inthe dark, that his uncertainty as to what really was arrived atconfused him. 

Could he hope for her understanding if without another word he lefther to draw her own conclusions from his future life?

She would be alone. She could confide in no one. She might, in theyears ahead, ascribe his actions to the lowest motives, and he had, God knew, meant her no harm. 

Then, as it was always to be in the time on ahead, Mary-Clare herselfseemed to speak to him. 

"It is what one does to love that matters. " That was it--"What onedoes. "

With this fixed in his mind Northrup wrote:

 I want you to know that I love you. I believe you love me. We couldn't help this--but you have taught me how not to kill it. 

 There are big, compelling things in your life and mine that cannot be ignored--you showed me that, too. I do not know how I am to go on with my old life--but I am going to try to live it--as you will live yours. 

 There was a mad moment on the hill that last day we met--you saved it. 

 There is a greater thing than love--it is truth, and that is why I must bid you good-bye--in this way. 

Crude and jagged as the thought was, Northrup, in rereading his words, did not now shrink from Mary-Clare's interpretation. She _would_understand. 

After an early breakfast, at which Kathryn did not appear--Aunt Pollyhad carried Kathryn's to her room--Northrup went out to see thateverything was ready for the journey home. To his grim delight--itseemed almost a postponed sentence--he discovered the chauffeur underthe car and in a state of _calm_ excitement. In broken but carefullyselected English the man informed Northrup that he could repair whatneeded repair but must have two hours or more in which to do it. 

With his anxiety about his mother lessened, Northrup received thisnews with a sense of relief. Once the car was in commission they couldmake good the loss of time. So Northrup started upon his errand, taking the roundabout trail he had broken for himself, and which ledto that point back of the cabin from which he had often held hislonely but happy vigils. 

Over this trail, leaf-strewn and wet, Northrup now went. He did notpause at the mossy rock that had hitherto marked his limit. He sternlystrode ahead over unbroken underbrush and reached the cabin. 

The door was open; without hesitation he went in, laid his note on thetable, put the Bible over it, and retraced his steps. But once at theclump of laurel a weak, human longing overcame him. Why not wait thereand see what happened? There was an hour or more to while away beforethe car would be in readiness. Again Northrup had that sense of being, after all, an atom in a plan over which he had small control. 

So far he could go, no further! After that? Well, after that he wouldnever weaken. He sat down on the rock, held the branches aside so thatthe cabin was in full view and, unseen himself, waited. 

Now it happened that others besides Northrup were astir that morning. Larry, shaved and washed, having had a good breakfast, provided byPeneluna and served by Jan-an, straightened himself and felt more aman than he had felt for many a day. He gave Jan-an money for Penelunaand a dollar for herself. The girl stared at the bill indicated ashers and pushed it back. 

"Take it, Jan-an, " Larry urged. "I'd like to remember you taking it. "

The girl, thus urged, hid the money in her bosom and shuffled out. 

Larry was sober and keen. He was going to carry out Northrup'scommands, but in his own way! He meant to lay a good deal more inwaste than perhaps any one would suspect. And yet, Larry, sober andabout to cut loose from all familiar things, had sensations that madehim tremble as he stumbled over the débris of the Point. 

Never before had he been so surely leaving everything as he was now. In the old days of separation, there had always been _home_ in thebackground. During that hideous year when he was shut behind bars, histhoughts had clung to home, to his father! He had meant then to goback and reform! Poor Larry! he had nothing to reform, but he had notrealized that. Then Maclin caught him and instead of being reformed, Larry was moulded into a new shape--Maclin's tool. Well, Maclin wasdone with, too! Larry strode on in the semi-darkness. The morning wasdull and deadly chill. 

Traditional prejudice rose in Rivers and made him hard and bitter. Hefelt himself a victim of others' misunderstanding. 

If he had had a--mother! Never before had this emotion swayed him. Heknew little or nothing of his mother. She had been blotted out. But henow tried to think that all this could never have happened to him hadhe not been deprived of her. In the cold, damp morning Larry revertedto his mother over and over again. Good or bad, she would have stoodby him! There was no one now; no one. 

"And Mary-Clare!" At this his face set cruelly. "She should have stoodby me. What was her sense of duty, anyway?"

She had always eluded him, had never been his. Larry rebelled at thisknowledge. She had been cold and demanding, selfish and hard. No womanhas a right to keep herself from her husband. All would have been wellif she had done her part. And Noreen was his as well as Mary-Clare's. But she was keeping everything. His father's house; the child; themoney!

By this time Larry had lashed himself into a virtuous fury. He felthimself wronged and sinned against. He was prepared to hurt somebodyin revenge. 

Larry went to the yellow house. It was empty. There was a fire on thehearth and a general air of recent occupancy and a hurried departure. A fiendish inspiration came to Rivers. He would go to that cabin ofMary-Clare's and wait for her. She should get her freedom there, whereshe had forbidden him to come. He'd enter now and have his say. 

Larry took a short cut to the cabin and by so doing reached it beforeMary-Clare, who had taken Noreen to Peneluna's--not daring to take herto the inn. 

Larry came to within a dozen yards of the cabin when he stopped shortand became rigid. He was completely screened from view, but, for themoment, he did not give this a thought. There was murder in his heart, and only cowardice held him back. 

Northrup was coming out of the cabin! Rivers had not realized that hetrusted Northrup, but he had, and he was betrayed! All the bitternessof defeat swept over him and hate and revenge alone swayed him. Suddenly he grew calm. Northrup had passed from sight; the white mistsof the morning were rolling and breaking. He would wait--if Mary-Clarewas in the cabin, and Larry believed she was, he could afford to bidehis time. Indeed, it was the only thing to do, for in a primitivefashion Rivers decided to deal only with his woman, and he meant tohave a free hand. He would have no fight for what was not worthfighting for--he would solve things in his own way and be off beforeany one interfered. 

And then he turned sharply. Someone was advancing from the oppositedirection. It was Mary-Clare. She came up her own trail, emerging fromthe mists like a shadowy creature of the woods; she walked slowly, wearily, up to the Place and went inside with the eyes of two men fullupon her. 

At that moment the sun broke through the mists; it flooded the cabinand touched warmly the girl who sank down beside the table. Instantlyher glance fell upon the note by the Bible. She took it up, read itonce, twice, and--understood more, far more than Northrup couldguess. 

Perhaps a soul awakening from the experience of death might know thesensation that throbbed through the consciousness of Mary-Clare atthat moment. The woman of her had been born in the cabin the daybefore, but the birth pains had exhausted her. She had not censuredNorthrup in her woman-thought; she had believed something of what nowshe knew, and understood. She raised the note and held it out on heropen palms--almost it seemed as if she were showing it to some unseenPresence as proof of all she trusted. With the sheet of paper stillheld lightly, Mary-Clare walked to the door of her cabin. She had nopurpose in mind--she wanted the air; the sunlight. And so she stood inthe full glow, her face uplifted, her arms outspread. 

Northrup from his hidden place watched her for a moment, bowed hishead, and turned to the inn. Larry watched her; in a dumb way he sawrevealed the woman he had never touched; never owned. Well, he wouldhave his revenge. 

Mary-Clare turned back after her one exalted moment; she took herplace by the table and spread again the note before her. She did notnotice the footsteps outside until Larry was on the threshold and thenshe turned, gripping, intuitively, the sheet of paper in her hand. Larry saw the gesture, saw the paper, and half understood. 

Mary-Clare looked at her husband distantly but not unkindly. She didnot resent his being there--the Place was no longer hers alone. 

"A nice lot you are!" Rivers blurted this out and came in. He sat downon the edge of the table near Mary-Clare. "What's that?" he demanded, his eyes on the note. 

"A letter. "

"Full of directions, I suppose?" Larry smiled an ugly, keen smile. 

"Directions? What do you mean?"

"I guess that doesn't matter, does it?" he asked. "Don't let us wastetime. See here, my girl, the game's up! Now that letter--I want that. It will be evidence when I need it. He's broken his bargain. I mean totake the advantage I've got. "

Mary-Clare stared at Rivers in helpless amazement--but her fingersclosed more firmly upon the note. 

"When he--he bought you--he promised me that he'd never see you again. He wanted you free--for yourself. Free!" Larry flung his head back andindulged in a harsh laugh. "I got the Point--he bought the Point andyou! Paid high for them, too, but he'll pay higher yet before I getthrough with him. "

Mary-Clare sat very quiet; her face seemed frozen into an expressionof utter bewilderment. That, and the memory of her as she had stood atthe door a few moments ago, maddened Rivers and he ruthlesslyproceeded to batter down all the background that had stood, inMary-Clare's life, as a plea for her loyalty, faith, and gratitude. 

"Do you know why my father kept me from home and put you in my place?"he demanded. 

"No, Larry. "

"He was afraid of me--afraid of himself. He left me to others--andothers helped me along. Others like Maclin who saw my ability!" AgainLarry gave his mirthless, ugly laugh and this time Mary-Clareshuddered. 

She made no defence for her beloved doctor--the father of the manbefore her. She simply braced herself to bear the blows, and sheshuddered because she intuitively felt that Larry was in no senserealizing his own position; he was so madly seeking to destroy that ofothers. 

"I'm a counterfeiter--I've been in prison--I've----" but here Riverspaused, struck at last by the face opposite him. It was awakening; itflushed, quivered, and the eyes darkened and widened. What washappening was this--Larry was setting Mary-Clare free in ways that hecould not realize. Every merciless blow he struck was rending a fetterapart. He was making it possible for the woman, close to himphysically, to regard him at last as--a man; not a husband thatmistaken loyalty must shield and suffer for. He was placing her amongthe safe and decent people, permitting her at last to justify herinstincts, to trust her own ideals. 

And from that vantage ground of spiritual freedom, released from allfalse ties of contract and promise, Mary-Clare looked at Larry withdivine pity in her eyes. She seemed to see the veiled form of hismother beside him--they were like two outcasts defiantly accusing her, but toward whom she could well afford to feel merciful. 

"Don't, Larry"--Mary-Clare spoke at last and there were tears in hereyes--"please don't. You've said enough. "

She felt as though she were looking at the dying face of a suicide. 

"Yes, I think I have said enough about myself except this: I wrote allthose letters you--you had. Not one was my father's--they werecounterfeits--there are more ways than one of--of getting what youwant. "

Again Mary-Clare shuddered and sank into the dull state of amazement. She had to think this over; go slowly. She looked at Larry, but shewas not listening. At last she asked wonderingly:

"You mean--that he did not want me to marry you? And that lastnight--he did not say--what you said you understood?"

Larry laughed--but it was not the old assured laugh of brutality--hehad stripped himself so bare that at last he was aware of his ownnakedness. 

"Oh!" The one word was like a blighting shaft that killed all that wasleft to kill. 

Larry put forth a pitiful defence. 

"You've been hard and selfish, Mary-Clare. Another sort might havehelped me--I got to caring, at first. You've taken everything andgiven mighty little. And now, when you see a chance of cutting loose, you wipe me off the map and betray me into the hands of a man who haslied to me, made sport of me, and thinks he's going to get away withit. Now listen. I want that letter. When I have used up the hushmoney I have now, I'm coming back for more--more--and you and he aregoing to pay. "

By this time Larry had worked himself again into a blind fury. He feltthis but could not control it. He had lost nearly everything--he mustclutch what was left. 

"Give that to me!" he commanded, and reached for the clenched hand onthe table. 

"No, Larry. If you could understand, I would let you have it, but youcouldn't! Nothing matters now between you and me. I am free, free!"

The radiant face, the clenched hand, blinded Larry. Sitting again onthe edge of the table, looking down at the woman who had eluded him, was defying him, he struck out! He had no thought at all for themoment--something was in his way; before he could escape he must flingit aside. 

Mary-Clare drooped; dropped from her chair and lay quiet upon thefloor. Her hand, holding the paper, was spread wide, the note wasunprotected. 

For a moment Larry gazed at his work with horrified eyes. Never beforehad he meted physical brutality to man or woman. He was a coward atheart, and he was thoroughly cowed as he stood above the girl at hisfeet. He saw that she was breathing; there was almost at once afluttering of the lids. There were two things for a coward todo--seize the note and make his escape. 

Larry did both and Mary-Clare took no heed. 

A little red squirrel came into the sunny room and darted about; thesunlight grew dim, for there was a storm rising, and the clouds wereheavy on its wings. 

And while the deathly silence reigned in the cabin, Northrup andKathryn were riding rapidly from the inn. As the car passed the yellowhouse, Kathryn pathetically drew down the shades--her eyes weretear-filled. 

"Brace, dear, " she whispered, "I'm so afraid. The storm; everythingfrightens me. Take me in your arms. "

And at that moment Kathryn believed that she loved Northrup, had savedhim from a great peril, and she was prepared to act the part, in thefuture, of a faithful wife. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Noreen and Jan-an late that afternoon returned to the yellow house. They were both rather depressed and forlorn, for they knew thatNorthrup was gone and had taken away with him much that had stimulatedand cheered. 

Finding the yellow house empty, the two went up the opposite hill andleisurely made their way to the brook that marked the limit of freechoice. Here they sat down, and Noreen suggested that they singNorthrup's old songs and play some of his diverting games. Jan-ansolemnly agreed, shaking her head and sighing as one does who recallsthe dead. 

So Noreen piped out the well-beloved words of "Green Jacket" and, rather heavily, acted the jovial part. But Jan-an refused to becomforted. She cried distractedly, and always when Jan-an wept shemade such abnormal "faces" that she disturbed any onlookers. 

"All right!" Noreen said at last. "We'll both do something. "

This clever psychological ruse brought Jan-an to her normal state. 

"Let's play Eve's Other Children, " Noreen ran on. "I'll be Eve andhide my children, the ones I don't like specially. You be God, Jan-an. "

This was a great concession on Noreen's part, for she revelled in theleading rôle, as it gave full play to her dramatic sense of justice. 

However, the play began with Noreen hiding some twisted and dry sticksunder stones and in holes in trees and then proceeding to dress, ingay autumn leaves, more favoured twigs. She crooned over them;expatiated upon their loveliness, and, at a given signal, poor Jan-anclumsily appeared and in most unflattering terms accused Noreen ofdepravity and unfaithfulness, demanding finally, in most picturesqueand primitive language, the hidden children. At this point Noreen roseto great heights. Fear, remorse, and shame overcame her. She pleadedand denied; she confessed and at last began, with the help of heraccuser, to search out the neglected offspring. So wholly did the twoenjoy this part of the game that they forgot their animosity, and whenthe crooked twigs were discovered Jan-an became emphaticallyallegorical with Noreen and ruthlessly destroyed the "other children"on the score that they weren't worth keeping. 

But the interest flagged at length, and both Jan-an and Noreen becamesilent and depressed. 

"I've got feelin's!" Jan-an remarked, "in the pit of my stomach. Besides, it's getting cold and a storm's brewing. Did yer hearthunder?"

Noreen was replacing her favoured children in the crannies of therocks, but she turned now to Jan-an and said wistfully:

"I want Motherly. "

"She's biding terrible long up yonder. "

"P'raps, oh! Jan-an, p'raps that lady you were telling about has takenMotherly!"

Noreen became agitated, but Jan-an with blind intuition scoffed. 

"No; whatever she took, she wouldn't take her! But she took Mr. Northrup, all right. Her kind takes just fierce! I sense her. "

Noreen looked blank. 

"Tell me about the heathen, Jan-an, " she said. "What _did_ he eat whenUncle Peter wouldn't let him have Ginger?"

"I don't know, but I did miss two rabbits. "

"Live ones, Jan-an?" Noreen's eyes widened. 

"Sure, live ones. Everything's live till it's killed. I ain't sayinghe et 'em 'live. "

"Maybe the rabbits got away, " Noreen suggested hopefully. 

"The Lord knows! Maybe they did. " Then Jan-an added furtherinformation: "I guess your father has gone for good!"

"Took?" Noreen was not now overcome by grief. 

"No, just gone. He gave me a dollar. "

"A dollar, Jan-an? A whole dollar?" This was almost unbelievable. Jan-an produced the evidence from her loose and soiled blouse. 

"He left his place terribly tidy, too, " she ran on, "and when a mandoes that Peneluna says it's awful suspicious. "

"Jan-an, you wait here--I'm going up to the cabin!"

Noreen stood up defiantly. She was possessed by one of her suddenflashes of inspiration. 

"Yer ain't been called, " warned Jan-an. 

"I know, but I _must_ go. I'll only peep in. Maybe Motherly took aback way to the inn. "

To this Jan-an had nothing to say and she sat down upon a wet rock towait, while Noreen darted up the trail like a small, distracted animalof the woods. 

It was growing dark and heavy with storm; the thunder was moredistinct--there was a hush and a breathless suggestion of wind held incheck by a mighty force. 

Noreen reached the shack and peeped in at the vine-covered window. What she saw marked a turning-point in the child's life. 

Mary-Clare was still stretched upon the floor. Several things hadhappened to her since Larry fled; she was never clearly to account forthem. 

She had been conscious and had drifted into unconsciousness severaltimes. She had tried, she recalled that later, to get to the couch, but her aching head had driven the impulse into oblivion. She hadfallen back on the floor. Then, again, she roused and there wasblood--near her. Not much, but she had not noticed it before, and shemust have fainted. Again, she could remember thinking of Noreen, ofthe others; and the necessity of keeping forever hidden the thing thathad happened. 

But again Mary-Clare, from exhaustion or faintness, slipped intosilence, and so Noreen found her!

The child went swiftly into the still cabin and knelt beside hermother. She was quite calm, at first, and unafraid. She took the dearhead on her lap and patted the white cheek where the little cut hadlet out the blood--there was dry blood on it now and that causedNoreen to gasp and cry out. 

Back and forth the child swayed, mumbling comforting words; and thenshe spoke louder, faster--her words became wild, disconnected. Shelaughed and cried and called for every one of her little world inturn. 

Uncle Peter!

Aunt Polly!

Peneluna! And then Jan-an! Jan-an!

As she sobbed and screamed Mary-Clare's eyes opened and she smiled. Atthat moment Jan-an came stumbling into the room. 

One look and the dull, faithful creature became a machine carrying outthe routine that she had often shared with others on the Point. 

"She ain't dead!" she announced after one terrified glance, and thenshe dragged Mary-Clare to the couch; ran for water; took a towel froma nail and bathed the white, stained face. During this Noreen's sobsgrew less and less, she became quieter and was able, presently, toassist Jan-an. 

"She's had a fall, " Jan-an announced. Mary-Clare opened her eyes--thewords found an echo in her heavy brain. 

"Yes, " she whispered. 

"And on an empty stummick!" Jan-an had a sympathetic twinge. 

"Yes, " again Mary-Clare whispered and smiled. 

"Noreen, you go on sopping her face--I'm going to get something hot. "

And while Noreen bathed and soothed the face upon the pillow intoconsciousness and reason, Jan-an made a fire on the hearth, carriedwater from a spring outside, and brought forth tea and some littlecakes from the cupboard. The girl's face was transfigured; she wasthinking, thinking, and it hurt her to think consecutively--but shethought on. 

"Norrie darling, I am all right. Quite all right. " At last Mary-Clarewas able to assert herself; she rose unsteadily and Jan-an sprang toher side. 

"Lay down, " she commanded in a new and almost alarming tone. "Can'tyer see, yer must hold on ter yerself a spell? Let me take the lead--Iknow, I know!"

And Mary-Clare realized that she did! Keenly the two gazed at eachother, Eve's two children! Mary-Clare sank back; her face quivered;her eyes filled with weak tears. 

Outside the darkness of the coming storm pressed close, the wind wasstraining at the leash, the lightning darted and the thunder rolled. 

"The storm, " murmured Mary-Clare, "the storm! It is the breaking up ofsummer!"

The stale cakes and the hot tea refreshed the three, and after an hourMary-Clare seemed quite herself. She went to the door and looked outinto the heart of the storm. The red lightning ran zigzag through theblackness. It seemed like the glad summer, mad with fear, seeking away through the sleet and rain. 

Bodily bruised and weary, mentally exhausted and groping, Mary-Clarestill felt that strange freedom she had experienced while Larry wasdevastating all that she had believed in, and for which she had givenof her best. 

She felt as one must who, escaping from an overwhelming flood, looksupon the destruction and wonders at her own escape. But she _had_escaped! That became, presently, the one gripping fact. She hadescaped and she would find safety somewhere. 

The late sunset after the storm was glorious. The clear gold that amighty storm often leaves in its wake was like a burnished shield. Thebreeze was icy in its touch; the bared trees startled one by thesudden change in their appearance--the gale had torn their colour andfoliage from them. Starkly they stood forth against the glowing sky. 

And then Mary-Clare led the way down the trail--her leaf-strewn, hidden trail. She held Noreen's hand in hers but she leaned uponJan-an. As they descended Mary-Clare planned. 

"When we get home, Jan-an, home to the yellow house, I want you to gofor Peneluna. "

From all the world, Mary-Clare desired the old understanding woman. 

"I guess you mean Aunt Polly, " Jan-an suggested. 

"No. To-morrow, Aunt Polly, Jan-an. To-day I want Peneluna. "

"All right. " Jan-an nodded. 

"And, Noreen dear. "

"Yes, Motherly. "

"Everything is all right. I had a--queer fall. It was quite dark inthe cabin--I hit my face on the edge of the table. And, Noreen. "

"Yes, Motherly. "

"I may have to rest a little, but you must not be worried--you see, Mother hasn't rested in a long while. "

Peneluna responded to the call. It was late evening when she andJan-an came to the yellow house. Before starting for the Point Jan-anhad insisted upon getting a meal and afterward she had helpedMary-Clare put Noreen to bed. All this had delayed her. 

"Now, " she said at last, "I'll go. I guess you're edging to the limit, ain't yer?"

Mary-Clare nodded. 

"I've never been sick, not plain sick, in all my life, " she murmured, "and why should I be now?"

But left alone, she made ready, in a strange way, for what she feltwas coming upon her. She undressed carefully and put her room inorder. Then she lay down upon her bed and drifted lightly between theknown and the unknown. 

She touched Noreen's sleeping face so gently that the child did notheed the caress. Then:

"Perhaps I am going to die--people die so easily at times--just flareout!"

And so Peneluna found her and knelt beside her. 

"You hear me, Mary-Clare?"

"Yes. I hear you, of course. "

"Well, then, child, take this along with you, wherever you bide for atime. I'm here and God Almighty's here and things is safe! You getthat?"

"Yes, Peneluna. "

"Then listen--'The solitary place shall be glad--and a highway shallbe there--and a way. '" The confused words fell into a crooning song. 

"Solitary Place----" Mary-Clare drifted to it, her eyes closedwearily, but she smiled and Peneluna believed that she had found TheWay. Whether it wound back or out--well! Peneluna turned to her taskof nursing. She had the gift of healing and she had an understandingheart, and so she took command. 

It was a rough and difficult Way and beset with dangers. A physiciancame and diagnosed the case. 

"Bad fall--almost concussion. "

Aunt Polly came and shared the nursing. Jan-an mechanically attendedto the house while Uncle Peter took Noreen under his care. 

The dull, uneventful days dragged on before Mary-Clare came back toher own. One day she said to Jan-an, "I--I want you to go to thecabin, Jan-an. I have given it--back to God. Close the windows anddoors--for winter has come!"

Jan-an nodded. She believed Mary-Clare was "passing out"--she wasfrightened and superstitious. She did not pause to explain toPeneluna, in the next room, where she was going, but covering her headand shoulders with an old shawl, she rushed forth. 

It was bitingly cold and the dry twigs struck against the girl's facelike ice. The ghost-wind added terror to the hour, but Jan-anstruggled on. 

When she reached the cabin it was nearly dark--the empty room washaunted by memories and there were little scurrying creatures dartingabout. Standing in the centre of the room, Jan-an raised her clenchedhands and extended them as if imploring a Presence. If Mary-Clare hadgiven the Place back to God, then it might be that God was there closeand--listening. Jan-an became possessed by the spiritual. She liftedher faithful, yearning eyes and spoke aloud. 

"God!" She waited. Then: "God, I'm trusting and I ain't afraid--much!God, listen! I fling this to Your face. Yer raised Lazarus and othersfrom the dead and Mary-Clare ain't dead yet--can't Yer--save her? Hearme! hear me!"

Surely God heard and made answer, for that night Mary-Clare's Wayturned back again toward the little yellow house. 

When she was able, Aunt Polly insisted that she be moved to the inn. 

"It will make less trouble all around and Peneluna will stay on. "

So they went to the inn, and the winter settled down upon the Forestand the Point and the mines. The lake was frozen and became aglittering highway; children skated; sleighs darted here and there. The world was shut away and things sank into the old grooves. 

During her convalescence Mary-Clare had strange visionary moments. Sheseemed to be able at times to detach herself from her surroundingsand, guided by almost forgotten words of Northrup's, find herself--withhim. And always he was alone. She never visualized his mother; shecould, thank heaven, eliminate Kathryn. 

She was alone with Northrup in a high place. They did not speak ortouch each other--but they knew and were glad! There seemed to bemists below them, surrounding them; mists that now and then parted, and she and Northrup would eagerly try to--see things! Mary-Clareimagined herself in that high place as she did Northrup, a personalityquite outside her own. 

After awhile those moments took more definite shape and form. She andNorthrup were trying to see their city in the mists; trying to createtheir city. 

This became a thrilling mental exercise to Mary-Clare, and in timeshe saw a city. Once or twice she almost felt him as she, that girl ofher own creation, reached out to the man whom she loved; who lovedher, but who knew, as she did, that love asks renunciation at times aswell as acceptance if one were to keep--truth. 

Presently Mary-Clare was able to walk in the sunshine and then sheoften went to the deserted chapel and sat silent for hours. 

And there Maclin found her one day--a smiling, ingratiating Maclin. Maclin had been much disturbed by Larry's abrupt and, up to thepresent, successful escape. Of course Maclin's very one-track mind hadat the hour of Rivers's disappearance accounted for things in aprimitive way. Northrup had bought Larry off! That was simple enoughuntil Northrup himself disappeared. 

At this Maclin was obliged to do some original conjecturing. Theremust have been a scene--likely enough in that wood cabin. Northrup'swoman had got the whip hand and Northrup had accepted terms--leavingMary-Clare. That would account for the illness. 

So far, so good. But with both Larry and Northrup off the ground, theHeathcotes would have to take responsibility. This would be thepsychological moment to buy the Point! So Maclin, keeping watch, followed Mary-Clare to chapel island. 

"Well, well!" he exclaimed as if surprised to see the girl in theangle of the old church. "Decided to get well, eh? Taking a sunbath?"

Mary-Clare gathered her cloak closer, as if shrinking from thesmiling, unwholesome-looking man. 

"Yes, I'm getting well fast, " she said. 

"Hear anything from Larry?" It seemed best to hide his own feelings asto Larry. 

"No. "

"Some worried, I expect?"

"No, I do not worry much, Mr. Maclin. " Mary-Clare was thinking of herold doctor's philosophy. She wasn't going to die, so she must live atonce!

"It's a damned mean way to treat a little woman the way you've beentreated. "

Maclin stepped nearer and his neck wrinkled. Mary-Clare made no replyto this. Maclin was conscious of the back of his neck--it irritatedhim. 

"Left you strapped?" he asked. 

"What is that?" Mary-Clare was interested. 

"Short of money. "

"Oh! no. My wishes are very simple--there's money enough for them. "

"See here, Mrs. Rivers, let's get down to business. Of course you knowI want the Point. I'll tell you why. The mines are all right _as_mines, but I have some inventions over there ripe for getting intofinal shape. Now, I haven't told a soul about this before--not evenLarry--but I always hold that a woman _can_ keep her tongue still. I'mnot one of the men who think different. I want to put up a factory onthe Point; some model cottages and--and _make_ King's Forest. Now whatwould you take for the Point, and don't be too modest. I don't grindthe faces of women. "

Maclin smiled. The fat on his face broke into lines--that was the besta smile could do for him. Mary-Clare looked at him, fascinated. 

"Speak up, Mrs. Rivers!" This came like a poke in the ribs--Mary-Clarerecoiled as from a physical touch. 

"I do not own the Point any longer, " she said. 

"What in thunder!" Maclin now recoiled. "Who then?"

"I gave it to Larry. "

"How the devil could Larry pay you for it?"

"Larry gave me no money. "

"Do you expect me to believe this, Mrs. Rivers?" The fat now resumedits flaccid lines. 

"It doesn't interest me in the least, Mr. Maclin, whether you do ornot. "

Then Mary-Clare rose, rather weakly, and turned toward the bridge. 

And there stood Maclin alone! Like all people who have much that theyfear to have known, Maclin considered now how much Larry really knew?Did he know what the Point meant? Had he ever opened letters? Thisbrought the sweat out on Maclin. 

Had he copied letters with that devilish trick of his? Could he sellthe Point to--to----?

Maclin could bear no longer his unanswered questions. He went back tothe mines and was not seen in King's Forest for many a day. 

CHAPTER XIX

Once back in the old environment, Northrup went, daily, through thesensations of his haunting dream, without the relief of awakening. Thecorridor of closed doors was an actuality to him now. Behind them layexperiences, common enough to most men, undoubtedly, but, as yet, unrevealed to him. 

In one he had dwelt for a brief time--good Lord! had it only been forweeks? Well, the memory, thank heaven, was secure; unblemished. Hevowed that he would reserve to himself the privilege of returning, inthought, to that memory-haunted sanctuary as long as he might live, for he knew, beyond any doubt, that it could not weaken his resolve totake up every duty that he had for a time abandoned. It should be withhim as Manly had predicted. 

This line of thought widened Northrup's vision and developed a new tiebetween him and other men. He found himself looking at them in thestreet with awakened interest. He wondered how many of them, stern, often hard-featured men, had realized their souls in private or publiclife, and how had they dealt with the revelation? He grew sensitive asto expressions; he believed, after a time, that he could estimate, bythe look in the eyes of his fellowmen, by the set of their jaws, whether they had faced the ordeal, as he was trying to do, or haddenied the soul acceptance. It was like looking at them through amagnifying lens where once he had regarded them through smoked glass. 

And the women? Well, Northrup was very humble about women inthose days. He grew restive when he contemplated results andpondered upon the daring that had assumed responsibility wherecomplete understanding had never been attempted. It seemed, in hisintrospective state, that God, even, had been cheated. Women were, he justly concluded, pretty much a response to ideals created forthem, not by them. 

Mary-Clare was having her way with Northrup!

Something of all this crept into his book for, after a fortnight athome, he set his own jaw and lips rather grimly, went to his smalloffice room in the tower of a high building, and paid the elevator boya goodly sum for acting as buffer during five holy hours of each day. 

It was like being above the world, sitting in that eyrie nook of his. Northrup often recalled a day, years before, when he had stood on amountain-peak bathed in stillness and sunlight, watching the dramaticplay of the elements on the scene below. Off to the right a violentshower spent itself mercilessly; to the left, rolling mists wereparting and revealing pleasant meadows and clustering hamlets. Andwith this recollection, Northrup closed his eyes and, from his silentwatch tower, saw, as no earthly thing could make him see, the hideoustragedy across the seas. 

Since his return his old unrest claimed him. It was blotting out allthat he had believed was his--ideals; the meaning of life; love; duty;even his city--_his_--was threatened. Nothing any longer seemed safeunless it were battled for. There was something he owed--what was it?

Try as he valiantly did, Northrup could put little thought in hiswork--it eluded him. He began, at first unconsciously, to plan forgoing away, while, consciously, he deceived himself by thinking thathe was readjusting himself to his own widened niche in the wall!

When Northrup descended from his tower, he became as other men and thegrim lines of lips and jaws relaxed. He was with them who first caughtthe wider vision of brotherhood. 

At once, upon his return, he had taken Manly into his confidence abouthis mother, and that simple soul brushed aside the sentimental rubbishwith which Kathryn had cluttered the situation. 

"It's all damned rot, Brace, " he snapped. "You had a grandmother whodid work that was never meant for women to do--laid a carpet or toreone up, I forget which, I heard the story from my father--and shedeveloped cancer--more likely it wasn't cancer--I don't think myfather was ever sure. But, good Lord! why should her descendantsinherit an accident? I thought I'd talked your mother out of thatnonsense. "

Thus reassured, Northrup told Kathryn that all the secret diplomacywas to be abandoned and that his mother must work with them. 

"But, Brace dear, you don't blame me for my fright? I was soworried!"

"No, little girl, you were a trump. I'll never forget how you stoodby!"

So Helen Northrup put herself in Manly's hands--those strong, faithfulhands. She went to a hospital for various tests. She was calm butoften afraid. She sometimes looked at the pleasant, thronged streetsand felt a loneliness, as if she missed herself from among her kind. Manly pooh-poohed and shrugged his broad shoulders. 

"Women! women!" he ejaculated, but there were hours when he, too, hadhis fears. 

But in the end, black doubt was driven away. 

"Of course, my dear lady, " Manly said relievedly, patting her hand, "we cannot sprint at fifty-odd as we did at twenty. But a moreleisurely gait is enjoyable and we can take time to look around at thepleasant things; do the things we've always wanted to do--but didn'thave time to do. Brace must get married--he'll have children andyou'll begin all over with them. Then I'd like to take in some musicwith you this winter. I've rather let my pet fads drop from sheerloneliness. Let's go to light opera--we're all getting edgy over here. I tell you, Helen, it's up to us older fry to steer the youngstersaway from what does not concern them. "

Poor Manly! He could not deafen his conscience to the growing callfrom afar and already he saw the trend. So he talked the more as onedoes to keep his courage up in grave danger. 

With his anxiety about Helen Northrup removed, Manly gave attention toBrace. Brace puzzled him. He acknowledged that Northrup had neverlooked better; the trip had done wonders for him. Yes; that wasit--something rather wonderful had been done. 

He attacked Northrup one day in his sledge-hammer style. 

"What in thunder has got mixed up in your personality?" he asked. 

"Oh! I suppose anxiety about Mother, Manly. And the thought that I hadslipped from under my responsibilities. Had she died--well! it's allright now. "

But this did not satisfy Manly. 

"Hang it all, I don't mean anxiety, " he blurted out. "The naturalstuff I can estimate and label. But you look somehow as if you hadbeen switched off the side track to the main line. "

"Or the other way about, old man?" Northrup broke in and laughed. 

"No, sir; you're on the main line, all right; but you don't look as ifyou knew where you were going. Keep the headlight on, Brace. "

"Thanks, Manly; I do not fully understand just where I may land, butI'm going slow. Now this--this horror across seas----" Always it wascreeping in, these days. 

"Oh! that's their business, Northrup. They're always scrapping--thisisn't our war, old man, " Manly broke in roughly, but Northrup shookhis head. 

"Manly, I cannot look at it as a war--just a plain war, you know. I'vehad a queer experience that I will tell you about some day, but itconvinced me that above all, and through all, there is a Power thatforces us, often against our best-laid plans, and I believe that Powercan force the world as well. Manly, take it from me, this is no scrapover there, it's a soul-finder; a soul-creator, more like. Before weget through, a good many nations and men will be compelled to look, asyou once did, at bare, gaunt souls or"--a pause--"set to work and makesouls. "

Manly twisted in his seat uneasily. Northrup went on. 

"Manly"--he spoke quietly, evenly--"do you remember our last talk inthis office before I left?"

"Well, some of it. Yes. "

"Jogs, you know. Mountain peaks, baby hands, women faces, and souls?"

"Oh! yes. Sick talk to a sick man. " Manly snapped his fingers. 

"Manly, what did you mean by saying that you had once seen your soul?"Northrup was in dead earnest. Manly swung around in his swivel chair. 

"I meant that I saw mine once, " he said sharply, definitely. 

"How did it look?"

"As if I had neglected it. A shrunken, shivering thing. " Manly stoppedsuddenly, then added briefly: "You cannot starve that part of you, Northrup, without a get-back some day. "

"No. And that's exactly what I am up against--the get-back!"

After that talk with Manly, Northrup, singularly enough, felt as if hehad arrived at some definite conclusion; had received instructions asto his direction. He was quietly elated and, sitting in his office, experienced the peace and satisfaction of one who spiritually submitsto a higher Power. 

The globe of light on the peak of his tower seemed, humorously, tohave become his headlight--Manly's figures of speech clung--its whiteand red flashes, its moments of darkness, were like the workings ofhis mind, but he knew no longer the old depression. He was on the mainline, and he had his orders--secret ones, so far, but safe ones. 

Kathryn grew more charming as time passed. She did not seem to resentNorthrup's detachment, though the tower room lured him dangerously. Once she had hinted that she'd love to see his workshop; hear some ofhis work. But Northrup had put her off. 

"Wait, dear, until I've finished the thing, and then you and I willhave a regular gorge of it, up in my tower. "

Kathryn at this put up her mouth to be kissed while behind herinnocent smile she was picturing the girl of King's Forest in thoseawful muddy trousers! _She_ had heard the book in the making; she hadnot been pushed aside. 

More and more Mary-Clare became a stumbling block to Kathryn. She feltshe was a dangerous type; the kind men never could understand, untilit was too late, and never forgot. And Brace _was_ changed. The subtleunrest did not escape Kathryn. 

"I wonder----" And Kathryn did wonder. Wondered most at thepossibility of Mary-Clare ever appearing on the surface again. For--and this was a humiliating thought to Kathryn--she realized shewas no match for that girl of the Forest!

However, Kathryn, as was her wont when things went wrong, pulled downthe shade mentally, as once she had done physically, against thedistasteful conditions Brace had evolved. 

And there was much to be attended to--so Kathryn, with greatefficiency, set to work. She must make provision for her aunt'sfuture. This was not difficult, for poor Anna was so relieved that anyprovision was to be considered, that she accepted Kathryn's lowestfigure. 

Then there was Arnold. Sandy, at the moment, was disgusted atNorthrup's return. It interfered with his plans. Sandy had a long andkeen scent. The trouble overseas had awakened a response in him, hemeant to serve the cause--but in his own way. Secretly he waspreparing. He was buying up old vessels, but old vessels wereexpensive and the secrecy prevented his borrowing money. He wanted toget married, too. Kathryn, with only his protection and he withKathryn's little fortune, would create, at the moment, a situationdevoutly to be desired. 

Kathryn had to deal with this predicament cautiously. Sandy was sohorribly matter-of-fact--not a grain of Northrup's idealism about him!But for that very reason, in the abominably upset state of the world, he was not lightly to be cast on the scrap-heap. One never could tell!Brace might act up sentimentally, but Sandy could be depended uponalways--he was a rock!

So Kathryn, embroidering her wedding linen--for she meant to bemarried soon--prayed for guidance. 

On the whole, the situation was most gratifying. No wonder Kathrynfelt well pleased with herself and more fully convinced that, withsuch wits as hers, life was reduced to a common factor. Once marriedshe would be able to draw a long breath. Marriage was such a divineinstitution for women. It gave them such a stranglehold--with theright sort of men--and Brace _was_ the right sort. 

To be sure he was not entirely satisfying at the present moment. Hisattentions smacked too much of duty. He could not deceive Kathryn. Hesent flowers and gifts in such profusion that they took on the aspectof blood money. Well, marriage would adjust all that. 

Helen urged an early date for the wedding and even Manly, who did notlike Kathryn, gripped her as the saviour of a critical situation. 

King's Forest had had a sinister effect upon Manly; it made him doubthimself. 

And so life, apparently, ran along smoothly on the surface. It was theundercurrents that were really carrying things along at a terrificrate. 

It was in his tower room that most of Northrup's struggle went on. Daily he confronted that which Was and Had To Be! With all his oldoutposts being taken day by day, he was left bare and unprotected forthe last assault. And it came!

It came as death does, quite naturally for the most part, and foundhim--ready. Like the dying--or the reborn--Northrup put his loved onesto the acid test. His mother would understand. Kathryn? It wasstaggering, at this heart-breaking moment, to discover, after all therecent proving of herself, that Kathryn resolved into an UnknownQuantity. 

This discovery filled Northrup with a sense of disloyalty andunreality. What right had he to permit the girl who was to be hiswife, the mother of his children, to be relegated to so ignominious aposition? Had she not proved herself to him in faithfulness andunderstanding? Had she not, setting aside her own rights, looked wellto his?

The days dragged along and each one took its toll of Northrup'svitality while it intensified that crusading emotion in his soul. 

He did not mention all this to those nearest him until the time fordeparture came, and he tried, God knew, to work while he performed thesmall, devotional acts to his mother and Kathryn that would soon standforth, to one of them at least, as the most courageous acts of hislife. 

He had come to that part of his book where his woman must take herfinal stand--the stand that Mary-Clare had so undermined. If hefinished the book before he went--and he decided that it might bepossible--his woman must rise supreme over the doubts with which shehad been invested. But when he came to the point, the decision, if hefollowed his purpose, looked cheap and commonplace--above everything, obvious. In his present mood his book would be just--a book; not theBig Experience. 

This struggle to finish his work in the face of the stubborn facts atmoments obliterated the crusading spirit; the doubts of Kathryn andeven Mary-Clare's pervading insistence. He hated to be beaten at hisown job. 

Love's supreme sacrifice and glory, as portrayed in woman--_must_ beman's ideal, of course!

The ugly business of the world had to be got through, and man oftenhad to set love aside--for honour. "But, good Lord!" Northrup argued, apparently to his useless right hand, what would become of thespiritual, if woman got to setting up little gods and bowing downbefore them? Why, she would forego her God-given heritage. To her, love must be all. Above all else. Why, the very foundations of lifewere founded upon that. What could be higher to a woman? Man couldlook out for the rest, but he must be sure of his woman's love! Therest would be in their own hands--that was their individual affair. 

And then, at this crucial moment, Mary-Clare _would_ always intrude. 

"It's what one does to love!" That was her stern ultimatum. "Love'sbest proof might be renunciation, not surrender!"

"Nonsense!" Northrup flung back. "How then could a man be sure? Nobook with such an ending would stand a chance. "

"You must not harm your book by such a doubt. That book must be_true_, and you know the truth. Women must be made glad by it, menstronger because someone understands and is brave enough to say it. "

But Northrup steeled his heart against this command. He meant tofinish his book; finish it with a flaming proof that, while menoffered their lives for duty, women offered theirs for love and didnot count the cost, like misers or--lenders. 

One afternoon Northrup, the ink still wet upon the last sheet of hismanuscript, leaned back wearily in his chair. He could not conquerMary-Clare. He let his eyes rest upon his awakening city. For him itrose at night. In the day it belonged to others--the men and women, passing to and fro with those strange eyes and jaws. But when they allpassed to their homes, then the lone city that was his started like athing being born upon a hill. 

It may have been at one of these strained moments that Northrup slept;he was never able to decide. He seemed to hold to the twinklinglights; he thought he heard sounds--the elevator just outside hisdoor; the rising wind. 

However that may be, as clearly as any impression ever fixed itselfupon his consciousness, he saw Mary-Clare beside him in her stainedand ugly garb, her lovely hair ruffled as if she had been travellingfast, and her great eyes turned upon him gladly. She was panting abit; smiling and thankful that she had found him, at last in hiscity!

It was like being with her on that day when they stood on the mountainnear her cabin and talked. 

Northrup was spellbound. He understood, though no word passed betweenhim and the girl so close to him. She did not try to touch him, butshe did, presently, move a step nearer and lay her little work-wornhand upon the pile of manuscript in that quaint way of hers that hadso often made Northrup smile. It was a reverent touch. 

Standing so, she sealed from him those last chapters! She would notargue or be set aside--she claimed her woman-right; the right to thetruth as some women saw it, as more would see it; as, God willing, Northrup himself would see it some day! He would know that it wasbecause of love that she had turned him and herself to duty. 

Northrup suddenly found himself on his feet. 

The little room was dark; the city was blazing about him--under him. His city! His hand lay upon his manuscript. 

Quietly he took it up and locked it in his safe. Slowly, reverently, he set the bare room in order without turning on the electricity. Heworked in the dark but his vision was never clearer. He went out, locked the door, as one does upon a chamber, sacred and secret. 

He did not think of Mary-Clare, his mother, or Kathryn--he was settingforth to do that which had to be done; he was going to give what washis to give to that struggle across the ocean for right; the provingof right. 

All along, his unrest had been caused by the warring elements inhimself--there was only one way out--he must take it and be proved asthe world was being proved. 

CHAPTER XX

"Mother, I must go!"

Helen Northrup did not tremble, but she looked white, thin-lipped. 

"You have given me the twenty-four hours, son. You have weighed thequestion--it is not emotional excitement?"

"No, Mother, it is conscience. I'm not in the least under an illusion. If I thought of this thing as war--a mere fight--I know I would beglad to avail myself of any honourable course and remain here. Butit's bigger than war, that Thing that is deafening and blinding theworld. Sometimes"--Northrup went over to the window and looked outinto the still white mystery of the first snowstorm--"sometimes Ithink it is God Almighty's last desperate way to awaken us. "

Helen Northrup came to the window and stood beside her son. She didnot touch him; she stood close--that was all. 

"I cannot see God in this, " she whispered. "God could have foundanother way. I have--lost God. I fear most of us have. "

"Perhaps we never had Him, " Northrup murmured. 

"But there _is_ God--somewhere. " Helen's voice quivered. "I shallalways be near you, beloved, always, and perhaps--God will. "

"I know that, Mother. And I want you to know that if this call wasn'tmightier than anything else in all the world, I would not leave you. "

"Yes, I know that, dear son. "

For a moment they stood in silence by the window and then turned, together, to the fireside. 

They were in Helen's writing-room. The room where so often she hadstruggled to put enough life into her weak little verses to send themwinging on their way. The drawers of her desk were full of sad fanciesthat had been still-born, or had come fluttering back to her arkwithout even the twig of hope to cheer her. But at all this she hadnever repined--she had her son! And now? Well, he was leaving her. Might never----

Sitting in the warmth and glow the woman looked at her son. With allthe yearning of her soul she wanted to keep him; she had so little; solittle. And then she recognized, as women do, in the Temple where theMost High speaks to them, that if he turned a deaf ear to the bestthat was in him, she could not honour him. 

"You have been happy, dear son? I mean you have had a happy life onthe whole?"

Helen had wanted that above all else. His life had been so short--itmight be so soon over, and the trivial untalked-of things rose sharplynow to the surface. 

"Yes, Mother. Far too happy and easy. "

"I've been thinking. " Helen's thought went slowly over the backwardroad--she must not break! But she must go back to the things they hadleft unspoken. "I've been thinking, during the last twenty-four hours, of all the happenings, dear, that I wish had been different. Yourfather, Brace! I--I tried not to deprive you of your father--I knewthe cost. It--it wasn't all his fault, dear; it was no real fault ofeither of us; it was my misfortune, you see--he was asking what--whathe had a perfect right to ask--but I was, well, I had nothing to givehim that he wanted. "

Northrup went across the space between him and his mother and laid hishand upon hers. 

"Mother, I understand. Lately I have felt a new sympathy for Father, and a new contempt. He missed a lot that was worth while, but he didnot know. It was damnable; he might have--kept you. "

"No, Brace. It is the world's thought. I have never been bitter. Ionly wish he could have been happy--after--after he went away. "

"And he wasn't?" This had never been discussed between them. 

"No, dear. He married a woman who seemed to be what he wanted. Shewearied of him. He died a lonely, a bitter man. I was saved thebitterness, at least, and I had you. "

Another pause. Then:

"Brace, I know it will seem foolish, but perhaps when you are far awayit won't seem so foolish. I want to tell you, dear, that I wish I hadnever spoken a harsh word to you. Life hurts so at the best--manywomen are feeling this as I do, dear. Once--you must humour me, Brace--once, after I punished you, I regretted it. I asked your pardonand you said, 'Don't mention it, Mother, I understood. ' I want you tosay it now, son; it will be such a comfort. "

"I believe, God hearing me, Mother, that I have understood; havealways known that you were the best and dearest of mothers. "

"Thank you. "

"And now, Mother, there is one thing more. We may not have anotheropportunity for a real house-cleaning. It's about King's Forest. "

Helen started, but she stiffened at once. 

"Yes, Brace, " she said simply. 

"There is a girl, a woman there. Such things as relate to that womanand me often happen to men and women. It's what one does to thehappening that counts. I realize that my life has had much in it; butmuch was left out of it. Much that is common stuff to most fellows;they take it in portions. It came all at once to me, but she wasstrong enough, fine enough to help me; not drift with me. I wanted youto know. "

"Thank you. I understand. Is there anything you would like to have medo?"

"No. Nothing, Mother. It is all right; it had to happen, I suppose. Iwanted you to know. We did not dishonour the thing--she's quitewonderful. " A pause; then:

"She has a brute of a husband--I hope I freed her of him, in a way;I'm glad to think of that now. She has a child, a little girl, andthere were some dead children. "

This detail seemed tragically necessary to tell; it seemed to explainall else. 

"And now, Mother, I must go around to Kathryn's. Do not sit up, dear. I'll come to your room. "

"Very well. " Then Helen stood up and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Some sons and daughters, " she said slowly, convincingly, "learn howto bear life, in part, from their parents--I have learned from myson. "

Then she raised her hands and drew his head down to hers and restedher cheek against his. Without a word more Northrup left the house. He was deeply moved by the scene through which he and his motherhad just passed. It had consisted of small and trivial things; ofoverwhelmingly big things, but it had been marked by a completeunderstanding and had brought them both to a point where they couldseparate with faith and hope. 

But as Northrup neared Kathryn's house this exalted feeling waned. Again he was aware of the disloyal doubt of Kathryn that made himhesitate and weigh his method of approach. He stood, before touchingthe bell of the Morris house, and shook the light snow from hiscoat; he was glad of delay. When at last he pushed the button heinstinctively braced. The maid who admitted him told him that he wasto go to the library. 

This was the pleasantest room in the house, especially at night. Thelighting was perfect; the old books gave forth a welcoming fragranceand, to-night, a generous cannel coal fire puffed in rich, glowingbursts of heat and colour upon the hearth. Kathryn was curled up inthe depths of a leather chair, her pretty blonde head just showingabove the top. She did not get up but called merrily:

"Here, dear! Come and be comfy. This is a big chair and a very littleme. "

Northrup came around in front of the chair, his back to the fire, andlooked down upon the small figure. The blue blur of the evening gown, the exquisite whiteness of arms, neck, and face sank into hisconsciousness. Unconsciously he was fixing scenes in his memory, asone secures pictures in a scrap-book, for the future. 

"Been dining out, dear?"

The dress suggested this, but Kathryn was alert. 

"Don't be a silly old cave thing, Brace. One cannot throw an oldfriend overboard in cold blood, now can one? Sandy is going away for aweek, but I told him to-night that never, never again would I dinewith him alone. Now will you be good?"

Still Northrup did not smile. He was not concerned about Arnold, buthe seemed such a nuisance at this moment. 

Kathryn, regarding Northrup's face, sat up and her eyes widened. 

"What's the matter, Brace?" she asked, and the hard, metallic ring wasin her voice. Northrup misunderstood the change. He felt that he hadstartled her. He sat down upon the arm of the chair. 

"Poor little girl, " he whispered. Kathryn also misunderstood, shenestled against him. 

"Big man, " she murmured, "he _is_ going to be nice. Kiss mehere--close behind my right ear--always and always that is going to bejust your place. "

Northrup did not seem to hear. He bent closer until his face pressedthe soft, scented hair, but he did not kiss the spot dedicated to him. Instead he said:

"Darling, I am going away!"

"Away--where?" Kathryn became rigid. 

"Overseas. "

"Overseas? What for, in heaven's name?"

"Oh! anything they'll let me do. I'm going as soon as I can besent--but----"

"You mean, without any reason whatever, you're going to go overthere?"

"Hardly without something that stands for reason, Kathryn. "

"But no one, not even Doctor Manly, thinks that it is our fight, Brace. The men who have gone are simply adventurers; men who loveexcitement or men who want to cut responsibilities and don't dareconfess it. "

Kathryn's face flamed hot. 

"Their lives must be pretty damnable, " Northrup broke in, "if theytake such a method to fling them aside. Do try to understand, dear;our women must, you know. " There was pleading in the words. 

Then by one of those sudden reversions of her nimble wits, Kathrynrecalled things she had heard recently--and immediately she took thecentre of her well-lighted stage, and horrible as it might seem, sawherself, a ravishing picture in fascinating widow's weeds! While thisvision was holding, Kathryn clung to Northrup and was experiencingactual distress--not ghoulish pleasure. 

"Oh! you must not leave me, " she quivered. 

"You will help me, Kathryn; be a woman like my mother?" Again Northruppleaded. This was unfortunate. It steadied Kathryn, but it hardenedher. 

"You want me to marry you at once, Brace?" she whispered. 

"No, dear. That would not be fair to you. I want you to understand; Iwant to know that you will--will keep Mother company. That is all, until I come home. I could not feel justified in asking a woman tomarry such a--such a chance as I am about to be. "

Now there was cause for what Kathryn suddenly felt, but not the causeshe suspected. Had Northrup loved deeply, faithfully, understandingly, he might, as others did, see that to the right woman the "chance, " ashe termed himself, would become her greatest glory and hope, but as itwas Northrup considered only Kathryn's best good and, gropingly, herealized that her interests and his were not, at the present, identical. 

But Kathryn, her ever-present jealousy and apprehension rising, wascarried from her moorings. She recalled the evidences of "duty" inNorthrup's attitude toward her since his return from King's Forest;his abstraction and periods of low spirits. 

"He cannot stand it any longer, " she thought resentfully; "he'swilling to do anything, take any chance. "

A hot wave of anger enveloped Kathryn, but she did not speak. 

"Kathryn"--Northrup grew restive at her silence--"haven't you anythingto say to me? Something I can remember--over there? I'd like to thinkof you as I see you now, little, pretty, and loving. The blue gown, the jolly fire, this fine old room--I reckon there will be times whenmy thoughts will cling to the old places and my own people ratherfiercely. "

"What can I say, Brace? You never see _my_ position. Men are selfishalways, even about their horrible fights. What do they care abouttheir women, when the call of blood comes? Oh! I hate it all, I hateit! Everything upset--men coming back, heaven only knows how! even ifthey come at all--but we women must let them go and _smile_ so as tosend them off unworried. We must stay home and be _nothings_ until theend and then take what's left--joyfully, gratefully--oh! I hate itall. "

Northrup got up and stood again with his back to the fire. He loomedrather large and dark before Kathryn's angry eyes. She feared he wasgoing to say the sentimental regulation thing, but he did not. Sorrowfully he said:

"What you say, dear, is terribly true. It isn't fair nor decent andthere are times when I feel only shame because, after all thesecenturies, we have thought out no better way; but, Kathryn, women aretaking part in this trouble--perhaps _you_----"

"You mean that _I_ may go over into that shambles--if I want to?" Withthis Kathryn sprang to her feet. "Well, thanks! I do not want to. I'mnot the kind of girl who takes her dissipation that way. If I ever letgo, I'll take my medicine and not expect to be shielded by thissentimentality. "

"Kathryn, how can you? My dear, my dear! Say what you want to about myfolly--men's mistakes--but do not speak so of your--sisters!"

"Sisters?" Kathryn laughed her mirthless but musical laugh. "You _are_funny, Brace!"

Then, as was her way when she lost control, Kathryn made straight forthe rocks while believing she was guided by divine intuition. Shefaced Northrup, looking up at him from her lower level. 

"I think I understand the whole matter, " she said slowly, all tracesof excitement gone. "I am going to prove it. Will you marry me beforeyou go?"

"No, Kathryn. This is a matter of principle with me. "

"You think they might not let you go--you'd have to provide for myprotection?"

"No, I am not afraid of that. You'd be well provided for; I would gounder any circumstances, but I will not permit you to take a leap inthe dark. "

"That sounds very fine, but _I_ do not believe it!"

The black wings that poor Jan-an had suspected under Kathryn's fineplumage were flapping darkly now. Kathryn was awed by Northrup'ssilence and aloofness. She was afraid, but still angry. What wasfilling her own narrow mind, she believed, was filling Northrup's andshe lost all sense of proportion. 

"Is _she_ going over there?" she asked. 

Northrup, if possible, looked more bewildered and dazed. 

"She--whom do you mean, Kathryn?"

"Oh! I never meant to tell you! You drive me to it, Brace. I alwaysmeant to blot it out----"

Kathryn got no further just then. Northrup came close to her and withfolded arms fixed his eyes upon her flushed face. 

"Kathryn, you're excited; you've lost control of yourself, but there'ssomething under all this that we must get at. Just answer myquestions. Whom do you mean--by 'she'?"

Kathryn mentally recoiled and with her back to her wall replied, outof the corner of her mouth:

"That girl in King's Forest!"

From sheer astonishment Northrup drew back as from a blow. Kathrynmisunderstood and gained courage. 

"I forgave it because I love you, Brace. " She gathered her cheaplittle charms together--her sex appeals. "I understood from the momentI saw her. "

"When did you see her? Where?"

Northrup had recovered himself; he was able to think. He knew he mustact quickly, emphatically, and he generously tried to be just. 

Keen to take advantage of what she believed was guilt, Kathrynresponded, dragging her lures along with her. 

"Please, dear Brace, do not look at me so sternly. I could not helpwhat happened and I suffered so, although I never meant to let youknow. You see, I walked in the woods that day that I went to King'sForest to tell you about your mother. A queer-looking girl told methat you lived at the inn, but were then in the woods. I went to findyou; to meet you--can you not understand?"

The tears stood in Kathryn's eyes, her mouth quivered. Northrupsoftened. 

"Go on, Kathryn. I _do_ understand. "

"Well, I came to a cabin in the woods, I don't know why, but somethingmade me think it was yours. You would be so likely to take such aplace as that, dear. I went in--to wait for you; to sit and thinkabout you, to calm myself--and then----"

"Yes, Kathryn!" Northrup was seeing it all--the cabin, the silentred-and-gold woods. 

"And then--she came! Oh! Brace, a man can never know how a woman feelsat such a moment--you see there were some sheets of your manuscript onthe table--I was looking at them when the girl came in. Brace, she wasquite awful; she frightened me terribly. She asked who I was and Itold her--I thought that would at least make her see my side; explainthings--but it did not! She was--she was"--Kathryn ventured a bolderdash--"she was quite violent. I cannot remember all she said--she saidso much--a girl does when she realizes what _she_ must have realized. Oh! Brace, I tried to be kind, but I had to take your part and sheturned me out!"

In all this Northrup felt his way as one does along a narrow passagebeset on either side with dangers. Characteristically he saw his ownwrong in originally creating the situation. Not for an instant did hedoubt Kathryn's story; indeed, she rose in his regard; for he felt forher deeply. He had, unwittingly, set a trap for her innocent, girlishfeet; brought her to bay with what she could not possibly understand;and the belief that she had been merciful, had accepted, in silence, at a time when his trouble absorbed her, touched and humiliated him;and yet, try as he did to consider only Kathryn, he could notdisregard Mary-Clare. He could not picture her in a coarse rage; theidea was repellent, but he acknowledged that the dramatic moment, lived through by two stranger-women with much at stake, was beyond hispowers of imagination. The great thing that mattered now was that hisduty, since a choice must be made, was to Kathryn. By every right, ashe saw it, she must claim his allegiance. And yet, what was there tobe done?

Northrup was silent; his inability to express himself condemned him inher eyes, and yet, strangely enough, he had never been more desirableto her. 

"Marry me, dear. Let me prove my love to you. No matter what lies backthere, I forgive everything! That is what love means to a woman likeme. "

Love! This poor, shabby counterfeit. 

With a sickening sense of repulsion Northrup drew back, andmaddeningly his book, not Kathryn, seemed to fill his achingbrain. With this conception of love revealed--how blindly he hadmisunderstood. He tried to speak; did speak at last--he heard hiswords, but was not conscious of their meaning. 

"You are wrong, child. Whatever folly was committed in King's Forestwas mine, not that girl's. I suppose I was a bit mad without knowingit, but I will not accept your sacrifice, Kathryn, I will not ask forforgiveness. When I come home, if you still love me, I will devote mylife to you. We will start afresh--the whole world will. "

"You are going at once?" Kathryn clutched at what was eluding her. 

"Yes, my dear. "

"And you won't marry me? Won't--prove to me?"

"No. "

"Oh! how can you leave me to think----"

"Think what, Kathryn?"

"Oh! things--about her. It would be such a proof of what you've justsaid--if only you would marry me now. "

"Kathryn, I cannot. I am--I wish that you could understand--I amstepping out into the dark. I must go alone. "

"That is absurd, Brace. Absurd. " A baffled, desperate note rang inKathryn's voice. It was not for Northrup, but for her first sense offailure. Then she looked up. All the resentment gone from her face, she was the picture of despair. 

"I will wait for you, Brace. I will prove to you what a woman's reallove is!"

So, cleverly, did she bind what she intuitively felt was the highestin Northrup. And he bent and laid his lips on the smooth girlishforehead, sorrowfully realizing how little he had to offer. 

A few moments later Northrup found himself on the street. The snow wasfalling thicker, faster. It had the smothering quality that is somysterious. People thudded along as if on padded feet; the lights weresplashed with clinging flakes and gleamed yellow-red in the whiteness. Sounds were muffled; Northrup felt blotted out. 

He loved the sensation--it was like a great, absorbing Force takinghim into its control and erasing forever the bungling past. Hepurposely drifted for an hour in the storm. He was like a moving partof it, and when at last he reached home, he stood in the vestibule formany moments extricating himself--it was more that than shaking thesnow off. He felt singularly free. 

Once within the house, he went directly to his mother's room. She waslying on a couch by the fire. In the shelter of her warm, quiet placeHelen seemed to have gained what Brace had won in the storm. She wassmiling, almost eager. 

"Yes, dear?" she said. 

Northrup sat down in the chair that was his by his mother's hearth. 

"Kathryn wanted to marry me, Mother, at once. "

"That would be like her, bless her heart!"

"I could not accept the sacrifice, Mother. "

"That would be like you--but is it a sacrifice?"

"It seems so to me. "

"You see, son, to many women this is the supreme offering. All _they_can give, vicariously, at this great demanding hour. "

"Women must learn to stop that rubbish, Mother. We men must refuseit. "

"Why, Brace!" Then: "Are you quite, quite sure it was all for Kathryn, son?"

"No, partly for myself; but that must include and emphasize Kathryn'sshare. "

"I see--at least I think I do. "

"But you have faith, Mother?"

"Yes, faith! Surely, faith. "

After a silence, broken only by the sputtering of the fire and thatsoft, mystic pattering of the snow on the window glass, Northrup askedgently:

"And you, Mother, what will you do? I cannot bear to think of youwaiting here alone. "

Helen Northrup rose slowly from the couch; her long, loose gowntrailed softly as she walked to the fireplace and stood leaning oneelbow on the shelf. 

"I'm not going to--wait, dear, in the sense you mean. I'm going towork and get ready for your return. "

"Work?" Northrup looked anxious. Helen smiled down upon him. 

"While you have been preparing, " she said, "so have I. There issomething for me to do. My poor little craft that I have pottered at, keeping it alive and praying over it--my writing job, dear; I haveoffered for service. It has been accepted. It is my great secret--I'vekept it for you as my last gift. When you come home, I'll tell youabout it. While you are away you must think of me, busy--busy!"

Then she bent and laid her pale fine face against the dark bowedhead. 

"You are tired, dear, very, very tired. You must go to bed andrest--there is so much to do; so much. "

CHAPTER XXI

In King's Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened--but, as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like acancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper--to the death. 

The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliteratedlinks; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even theyached with the pain of blows they had endured. 

The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbedand pulsated and to them, more often than of old--or so it seemed--thebell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages--messages rungout by unseen hands. 

"There's mostly lost winds this winter, " poor Jan-an whimpered toPeneluna. "I have feelin's most all the time. I'm scared early andlate, and that cold my bones jingle. "

Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl, wrapped her in warmer clothes, and sent her scurrying across thefrozen lake to the yellow house. 

"And don't come back till spring!" she commanded. 

"Spring?" Jan-an paused as she was strapping on an old pair of skatesthat once belonged to Philander Sniff. "Spring? Gawd!"

It was a terrific winter. The still, intense kind that grips everysnowstorm as a miser does his money, hiding it in secret places of thehills where the divine warmth of the sun cannot find it. 

The wind, early in November, set in the north! Occasionally the "ha'ntwind" troubled it; wailed a bit and caught the belfry bell, and thengave up and sobbed itself away. 

At the inn a vague something--was it old age or lost faith?--wastrying to conquer Peter's philosophy and Aunt Polly's spiritualvision. The _Thing_, whatever it was, was having a tussle, but it madeits marks. Peter sat oftener by the fire with Ginger edging close tothe leg that the gander had once damaged and which, now, acted as anindicator for Peter's moods. When he did not want to talk his "legached. " When his heart sank in despair his "leg ached. " But Polly, alittle thinner, a little more dim as to far-off visions, caught everymood of Peter's and sent it back upon him like a boomerang. She methis silent hours with such a flare of talk that Peter responded inself-defence. His black hours she clutched desperately and held themup for him to look at after she had charged them with memories ofgoodness and love. 

As for herself? Well, Aunt Polly nourished her own brave spirit byservice and an insistent, demanding cry of justice. 

"'Tain't fair and square to hold anything against the Almighty, " sheproclaimed, "till you've given Him a chance to show what He did thingsfor. "

Polly waxed eloquent and courageous; she kept her own faith by voicingit to others; it grew upon reiteration. 

Peter was in one of his worst combinations--silence and lowspirits--when Polly entered the kitchen one early afternoon. A glanceat the huddling form by the red-hot range had the effect of turningPolly into steel. She looked at Ginger, who reflected his master'smoods pathetically, and her steel became iron. 

"I suppose if I ask you, Peter, how you're feeling, " she said slowly, calmly, "you'll fling your leg in my face! It's monstrous to see howan able-bodied man can use any old lie to save his countenance. "

"My leg----" Peter began, but Polly stopped him. She had hung her coatand hood in the closet and came to the fire, patting her thin hair inorder and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat. 

"Don't leg me, Peter Heathcote, I'm terrible ashamed of you. Terrible. So long as you _have_ legs, brother--and you _have_!--I say use 'em. Half the troubles in this world are _think troubles_, laid to legs andbacks and what not. "

"Where you been?" Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him. "You look tuckered. "

"I wasn't tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I've beenconsiderable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare's. She is mightyheartening. She's gathered all the children she can get and she'steaching them. She's mimicking the old doctor's plan--making him liveagain, she calls it--and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forestwho doesn't set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and doesthings!"

Peter winced and Polly rambled on:

"It's really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles thosechildren. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story--evergreens, red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribboncollars. They look powerful foolish, but they don't look like poorGinger, who acts as if he was being smothered!"

Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly:

"I guess we better change this dog's name. Ginger is like an insult tohim. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain't no ginger left in him. "

"Peter, you're all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is moregingery than ever. You don't have to dash around after yer tail toprove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble evenwhen yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimesmakes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get awayfrom you?"

"No. " Peter's hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the goodsigns and took heart. 

"Why, he joins Mary-Clare's dogs and fetches the littlest children tothe yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I've seen thatlittle crippled tot of Jonas Mills' on Ginger's back. Ain't thatginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it's you as ails that dog--he'swhat you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn't unmindful ofsparrows, takes notice of dogs. " Then suddenly, Polly demanded:"Peter, what is it, just?"

Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back againstits gay cretonne cushions--a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just whereher aching head rested. 

"Well, Polly"--Peter slapped the leg that he had lied about--"you andI came to the Forest half a century ago and felt real perky. Wethought, under God, we'd make the Forest something better; the peoplemore like people. We came from a city with all sorts of patterns offolks; we had ideas. The Forest gave me health and we were gratefuland chesty. It all keeps coming back and--and swamping me. "

"Yes, brother, and what else?"

"At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up thebar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks andprotecting 'em. " Peter gulped. 

"I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter, " Polly remarkedfiercely. 

"Then Maclin came!" Peter groaned out the words, for this was the cruxof the matter. 

"Yes--Maclin came. " Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. "And I think, lookingback, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was atester. "

Peter gave a rumbling laugh. 

"Maclin a tester!" he repeated. "Lord, Polly, yer notions are moremessing than clearing. "

"Well, anyway, Peter Heathcote, Maclin came, and this I do say: placesare like folks--if their constitutions are all right, they don't takedisease. Maclin was a disease, and we caught him! He settled on us andwe hadn't vim enough to know and understand what he was. If it hadn'tbeen Maclin it would have been another. As things are I do feel thatMaclin has cleared our systems! The folks were wakened by him asnothing in the world could have wakened them. "

Peter was not listening, he was thinking aloud. 

"All our years wasted! We felt so sure that we was capable that wejust let folks fall into the hands of that evil man. Think ofanything, bearing the image of God taking advantage of simple, honestpeople and letting them into what he did!"

"I never did think Maclin was in the image of God, Peter. All God'schildren ain't the spitting image of Him. And Maclin certainly did usa good turn when he found iron on the Point. The iron's here--if heain't!"

"He meant to turn that and his damned inventions against us. Betray usto an enemy! And us just sitting and letting him do it!"

"Well, he didn't do it!" Polly snapped. "And it seems like God isgiving us another chance; same as He is the world. "

Peter got up and stumped noisily about the kitchen much to Ginger'ssurprise and discomfort. 

"We're old, Polly, " he muttered; "the heart's taken out of us. We led'em astray because we didn't lead 'em right. "

"I'm not old. " Polly looked comically defiant. "And my heart's whereit belongs and on the job. It's shame to us, Peter, if we don't useevery scrap that's left of us to undo the failings of the past. "

"And that night!" Peter groaned, recalling the night of Maclin'sarrest. "That's what comes of being false to yer trust. Terrible, terrible! Twombley standing over Maclin with his gun after finding himflashing lights to God knows who, and then those government menhauling things out of his bags--why, Polly, in the middle of someblack nights I get to seeing the look on Maclin's face when he wascaught!"

"Now, brother, do be sensible and wipe the sweat off yer forehead. This room is stifling. Can't you see, Peter, that at a time like thatthe Lord had to use what He had, and there was only us to use? BetterTwombley's gun than Maclin's, and you know, full well, they found twougly looking guns in Maclin's bag all packed with papers and picturesof the mines and bits of our own rock--what showed iron. Peter, Iain't a bloodthirsty woman and the Lord knows I don't hunger for myfellow's vitals, but I'm willing to give Maclin up to a righteous God. The Lord knows we couldn't deal with the like of him. "

"But, Polly"--poor Peter's humanity had received a terrible jog--"thelook on Maclin's face--when he was caught!"

"Well! he ought to have had a look!" Polly snapped. "Several of usgave him looks. I remember that the Point men looked just as if it wasresurrection day. They stiffened up and _I_ say, Peter Heathcote, their backs ain't slumped yet--oh! if only we could keep them stiff!It was an awful big thing to happen to a little place like the Forest. It's terrible suggestive!"

But Peter could not be diverted. 

"They were fearful rough with him--he, a trapped creature, Polly! Ialways feel as if one oughtn't to harry a trapped thing. That's notGod's way. It was all my fault! What was I a magistrate for--and juststanding by--staring?"

"Well, he should have held still--he put up fight. Brother, you makeme indignant. "

"They mauled him, Polly, mauled him. And they took him--to what?"

Polly got up. 

"Peter, " she said, "you're a sick man or you wouldn't be such a fool. I always did hold that your easy-going ways might lead you into mushinstead of clear vision, and it certainly looks as if I was right. What you need is a good spring tonic and more faith in God. Maclin wasleading us into--what? Hasn't he sent the old doctor's boy into--what?The Almighty has got all sorts to deal with--and he's got Maclin, butwe've got what's left. Peter, I put it up to you--what are we going todo about it?"

"What can we do?" Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spreadknees--for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. "Has any one heardof Larry?"

This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not beasked. 

"Yes, Peter. Twombley has, " she faltered. 

"Where is he?" Peter's mouth gaped. 

"The letter said that when he came back we'd be proud of himand"--Polly choked--"he begged our pardons--for Maclin. He's gone tothat war--over there. He said it was all he could do--with himself, toprove against Maclin. "

A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catchin her voice:

"Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Bettergive Larry a chance to do his proving--before we get any hopes orfears to acting up. "

"I guess that's sensible, " Peter nodded, "he mightn't do it, youknow. "

Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping fromhis face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losingits hold. 

"It's powerful hot here!" Peter muttered, wiping his face. "And whatin thunder ails that dog?"

Ginger was certainly acting queer. He was circling around, sniffing, sniffing, his nose in the air, his tail wagging. He edged over to thedoor and smelt at the crack. 

"Fits?" Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration. 

"I believe, Peter, " she said solemnly, "Ginger smells--spring! Ithought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges bythe water. I do love edges, Peter! Let's open the door wide, brother. We get so used to winter, and live so close, that sometimes we don'tknow spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge ofwinter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Gingerold fellow, what's the matter?"

Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. Asoft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorwayand a fragrance of young, edgy things thrilled them. 

"Peter dear, spring is here!" Polly said this like a prayer. 

"Spring!" Peter's voice echoed the sound. Then he turned to the closetfor his coat and hat. 

"Where you going, brother?"

The big bulky figure, ready for a new adventure, turned at the door. 

"Just going to the Point and stand by! We must take care of the olddoc's leavings. The iron, that boy of his, and--the rest. Come on, Ginger. "

Polly watched the two pass from sight and then she readjusted herspectacles to the far-off angle. 

And while this was occurring at the inn there was a tap on the door ofthe yellow house, and with its welcoming characteristic in full play, the door swung in, leaving a tall woman on the threshold flushed andapologetic. 

"I never saw such a responsive door!" she said. "I really knocked verygently. Please tell me how far it is to the inn?"

Mary-Clare, her little group of children about her, looked up andsmiled. The smile and the eyes made the stranger's breath come a bitquicker. 

"Just three miles to the south. " Mary-Clare came close. "You arewalking? I will send my little girl with you. Noreen?"

But Jan-an was holding Noreen back. 

"She's one of them other children of Eve!" she cautioned. "Don'tforget the other one!"

"Thank you so much, " the stranger was speaking. "But may I rest herefor a moment? These children--is it a school. "

"A queer one, I'm afraid. We're all teachers, all pupils--even thedogs. "

Mary-Clare looked at her small group. 

"One has to do something, you know, " she said. "Something to help. "

"Yes. And will you send the children away for a moment? I havesomething to say to you. "

Mary-Clare's face went white. Since Maclin's exposure the girl knew aspiritual fear that never before had troubled her. Maclin and Larry!Doubt, uncertainty--they had done their worst for Mary-Clare. 

When the children were gone the stranger leaned forward and saidquietly:

"I am Mrs. Dana--I am here on government business. There, my dear Mrs. Rivers, please do not be alarmed--I come as your friend; the friend ofKing's Forest; it is on the map, you know. "

The tears stood in Mary-Clare's wide eyes, her lips trembled. 

"I conscript you!" Mrs. Dana leaned a little further toward Mary-Clareand took her hands. "I was directed to you, Mrs. Rivers. You must helpme do away with a wrong impression of the Forest. Together we willtell a story to the outside world that will change a great manythings. We will tell the truth and set the Forest free fromsuspicion. "

"Oh! can we? Why, that would be the most splendid thing. We're allso--so frightened. "

"Yes. I know. See, I have my credentials"--Mrs. Dana took a notebookfrom her bag. "The mines--well, all the danger there is destroyed. Themines are cleaned out. " She was reading from her notes. 

"Yes. " Mary-Clare was impressed. 

"And there's iron on the Point--we must get at that--you own thePoint?"

"No; I gave it to my husband. " The words were whispered. "And he soldit to a Mr. Northrup. " There was no holding back in King's Forestthese days. 

"I see. Well, we must get this Mr. Northrup busy, then. Where is he?"

Mrs. Dana tucked the book away and her eyes looked kindly intoMary-Clare's. 

"I do not know. He went to his--to the city--New York. "

"And you have never heard from him?"

"No. "

"Well, Mrs. Rivers, I am your friend and the friend of the Forest. Together, we ought to be able to do it a good turn. And now, if youare willing, I would love to borrow your little girl. "

On the lake road Noreen, after a few skirmishes, succumbed to one ofher sudden likings--she abandoned herself to Mrs. Dana's charm. Withher head coquettishly set slantwise she fixed her grave eyes--theywere very like her mother's--on Mrs. Dana's face. 

"I like the look of you, " she confided softly. 

"I'm glad. I like the look of you very much, little Noreen. "

"Do you know any stories or songs?" Noreen had her private test. 

"I used to, but it has been a long while since I thought about them. Do you know any, Noreen?"

"Oh! many. My man taught me. He taught me to be unafraid, too. "

"Your man, little girl?" Mrs. Dana turned her eyes away. 

"Yes'm. Jan-an, she's a bit queer, you know, Jan-an says theghost-wind brought him. He only stayed a little while, but thingsaren't ever going to be the same again. No'm, not ever! He even likedJan-an, and most folks don't--at first. His name is Mr. Northrup, butJan-an and I call him The Man. "

"And he sang for you?"

"Yes'm. We sang together, marching along--this way!" Noreen swung thehand that held hers. "Do you know--'Green jacket, red cap'?" sheasked. 

"I used to. It goes something like this--doesn't it?

 "Up the airy mountain Down the rustly glen----

I have forgotten the rest. " Mrs. Dana closed her eyes. 

"Oh! that's kingdiferous, " Noreen laughed with delight. "I'll sing therest, then we'll sing together:

 "We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap And white owl's feather. "

They were keeping step and singing, rather brokenly, for Noreen wasthinking of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur ofmoving men upon a weary road, for a little boy--a very little boy. 

"Now, then, " Noreen insisted, "we can sing it betterer this time. 

 "Green jacket, red cap And white owl's feather. "

Suddenly Noreen stopped. 

"Your face looks funny, " she said. "Your lips are laughing, but youreyes--is it the sun in your eyes?"

Mrs. Dana bent until her head was close to Noreen's. 

"Little girl, little Noreen, " she said, "that is it--the sun is in myeyes. "

"There's the inn!" Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turningout quite as gaily as she hoped. Things did not, any more. 

"Shall I go right to the door with you?" she asked. 

"No. I want to go alone. Good-bye, Noreen. "

"I hope you'll stay a long time!" Noreen paused on the road. 

"Why, dear?"

"Because Motherly liked you, and I like you. Good-bye. "

And Mrs. Dana stayed a long time, though after the first week hersojourn was marked by incidents, not hours. 

"Seems like the days of the creation, " Peter confided to Twombley. "Let there be light--there was light! Get the Forest to work--and theForest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened--and aschool. Queer, Twombley, how her being a woman and the easy sort, too, doesn't seem to stop her none. "

Twombley shifted in his chair--the two men were sitting in the springsunshine by Twombley's door. 

"The Government's behind her!" he muttered confidently. "And, Heathcote, I ain't monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclinnight--anything the Government asks of me, I hold up my hands. "

"Yes, I reckon that's safest. " Peter was uplifted, but cautious. 

"She's set Peneluna to painting all the houses--yeller, " Twombleyrambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. "And youknow what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour's mightysatisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there's more in it than justcolour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showingup on the 'tarnal paint that's slushed everywhere. "

"Mighty queer doings!" Heathcote agreed. 

"The women are plumb crazy over this government woman, " Twombley wenton, "and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare aretogether early and late. Thick as corn mush. "

Peter drew his chair closer. 

"Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest, " hewhispered. "Writing things allas makes me nervous. What's writ--isfixed. "

"Gosh! Heathcote; it's like the Judgment Day and no place to hidein!"

"That's about it, Twombley. No place to hide in. "

And then after weeks of strenuous effort Mrs. Dana went away assuddenly as she had come. She simply disappeared! But there was apeculiar sense of waiting in the Forest and a going on with what hadbeen begun. The momentum carried the people along. The church wasrepaired, a school house started, the Point cleaned. 

 * * * * *

The summer passed, another winter--not so cruel as the last--and thespring came, less violently. 

 * * * * *

It was early summer when another event shook the none-too-steadyForest. Larry came home!

Jan-an discovered him sitting on a mossy rock, his back against atree. The girl staggered away from him--she thought she saw a vision. 

"It is--you, ain't it?" she gasped. 

"What's left of me--yes. " There was a strange new note in Rivers'svoice. 

Jan-an's horror-filled eyes took in the significance of the words. 

"Where's--the rest of you?" she gasped. 

Larry touched the pinned-up leg of his trousers. 

"I paid a debt with the rest, " he said, and there was that in hisvoice that brought Jan-an closer to him. 

"Where yer bound for?" she asked, her dull face quivering. 

"I don't know. A fellow gave me a lift and dropped me--here. "

"You come along home!" Jan-an bent and half lifted Larry. "Lean on me. There, now, lean heavy and take it easy. "

Mary-Clare was sitting in the living-room, sewing and singing, whenthe sound of steps startled her. She looked up, then her face changedas a dying face does. 

"Larry!" she faltered. She was utterly unprepared. She had been keptin ignorance of the little that others knew. 

"I--I'm played out--but I can go on. " Larry's voice was husky and hedrooped against Jan-an. Then Mary-Clare came forward, her arms openedwide, a radiance breaking over her cold white face. 

"You have come--home, Larry! Home. Your father's home. "

And then Larry's head rested on her shoulder; her arms upheld him, forthe crutch clattered to the floor. 

"My father's home, " he repeated like a hurt child--"that's it--myfather's home. "

CHAPTER XXII

But beyond that exalted moment stretched the plain, drear days. Daysholding subtle danger and marvellous revelations. 

Larry, with his superficial gripping of surface things, grew merry andchildishly happy. He had paid a debt, God knew. Shocked by the Maclinexposure, he had been roused to decency and purpose as he had neverbeen before. He felt now that he had redeemed the past, andMary-Clare's gentleness and kindness meant but one thing to Rivers. And he wanted that thing. His own partial regeneration had beenevolved through hours of remorse and contrition. Alone, under strangeskies and during long, danger-filled nights, he had caught a glimpseof his poor, shivering soul, and it had brought him low in fear, thenhigh in hope. 

"Perhaps, if I pay and pay"--he had pleaded with the sad thing--"I canwin out yet!"

And sitting in the warm, sunny room of the yellow house, Larry beganto believe he had! It was always so easy for him to see one smallspot. 

At the first he was a hero, and the Forest paid homage to him;listened at his shrine and fed his reviving ego. But heroes cloy thetaste, in time, and the most thrilling tales wax dull when they areworn to shreds. More and more Larry grew to depend upon Mary-Clare andNoreen for company and upon Jan-an for a never-failing listener to histales. 

Noreen, just now, puzzled Mary-Clare. The child's old aversion to herfather seemed to have passed utterly from her thought. She was devotedto him; touched his maimed body reverently, and wooed him from the sadmoments that presently began to overpower him. 

She assumed an old and protecting manner toward him that would havebeen amusing had it not been so tragically pathetic. 

Every afternoon Larry took a nap, sitting in an old kitchen rocker. Poised on the arm of the chair, her father's head upon her tinyshoulder, Noreen sang him to sleep. 

"You're my baby, daddy-linkum, and I'm your motherly. Come, shut youreyes, and lall a leep!"

And Larry would sleep, often to awake with an unwholesome merrimentthat frightened Mary-Clare. 

One late summer afternoon she was sitting with him by the open door. The beautiful hills opposite were still rich with flowers and greenbushes. Suddenly Larry said:

"It's great, this being home!"

"I'm glad home was here for you to come to, Larry. " Mary-Clare felther heart beat quicker--not with love, but the growing fear. 

"Are you, honest?"

"Yes, Larry. Honest. "

"I wonder. " It was the old voice now. "When I lay out there, andcrawled along----"

"Please, Larry, we have agreed not to talk of that!"

"Yes, I know, but even then, while I was crawling, I got to thinkingwhat I was crawling back to--and counting the chances and whether itwas worth while. "

"Please, Larry!"

"All right!" Then, in the new voice: "You're beautiful, Mary-Clare. Sometimes, sitting here, I get to wondering if I really ever saw youbefore. Second sight, you know. "

"Yes, second sight, Larry. "

"And Noreen--she is mine, Mary-Clare. " This was flung out defiantly. 

"Part yours. Yes, Larry. "

"She's a great kid. Old as the hills and then again--a baby-thing. "

"We must not strain her, Larry, we cannot afford to put too heavy aload on her. She would bear it until she dropped. "

"Don't get talking booky, Mary-Clare. You don't as much as you oncedid. " A pause, then hardly above a whisper: "Do you go to the cabin inthe woods now, Mary-Clare?"

"I haven't been there for a long while, Larry. " Mary-Clare's handsclutched each other until the bones ached. 

"I'm sorry, Mary-Clare, God knows I am, for what I did up there. Itwas the note as drove me mad. Across--over there, I used to read thatnote, you and he were queer lots. "

"Larry, I will not talk about that--ever!"

"You can't forgive?"

"I have forgiven long ago. "

"Nothing happened between you and him, Mary-Clare. You're great stuff. Great! And so is he. "

A thin, blue-veined hand stole out and rested on Mary-Clare's head andMary-Clare looked down at the empty place where Larry's strong rightleg should have been. A divine pity stirred her, but she knew now, asalways, that Larry did not crave pity; sympathy; and the awful Truthupheld Mary-Clare in her weak moment. She would never again failherself or him by misunderstanding. 

"When I'm well, Mary-Clare, you'll be everything to me, won't you?We'll begin again. You, me, and little Noreen. You are lovely, girl!The lights in your hair dance, your neck is white, and----"

The heart of Mary-Clare seemed to stop as the groping fingers touchedher. 

"Look at me, Mary-Clare!"

There was the tone of the conqueror in the words--Larry laughed. ThenMary-Clare looked at him! Long and unfalteringly she let her eyes meethis, and there was that in them that no man misunderstands. 

"You mean you do not care?" Larry's voice shook like a frightenedchild's; "that you'll never care?"

"I care tremendously, Larry, and I will do my best. But you must notask for more. "

"Good God! and I crawled back for this!" The words ended in a sob;"for this! I thought I could pay but I cannot--ever, ever!"

 * * * * *

And in the distant city Helen Northrup waited for her son. There hadbeen a cable--then the long silence. He was on the way, that was allshe knew. 

In the work-room Helen tried to keep to the routine of her days. Herwork had saved her; strengthened her. Her contact with people hadgiven her vision and sympathy. She was marvellously changed, but ofthat she took little heed. 

And then Northrup came, unannounced. He stood in the doorway of theroom where his mother sat bent upon her task on the desk before her. For a moment he hardly knew her. He had feared to find her broken, crushed beyond the hope of health and joy. He had counted thatpossibility among the things that his experience had cost him. A waveof relief, surprise, and joy swept over him now. 

"Mother!"

Helen paused--her pen held lightly--then she rose and came toward him. Her face Northrup was never to forget. So might a face look thatwelcomed the dead back to life. Just for one, poor human moment, theycould not speak, they simply clung close. After that, life caught themin its common current. 

The afternoon, warm and sunny, made it possible for the windows to beopen wide; there were flowers blooming in a window-box and a coolbreeze, now and again, drew the white curtains out, then released themwith a little sighing sound. The peacefulness and security stirredNorthrup's imagination. 

"It doesn't seem possible, you know!" he said. 

"Being home, dear?" Helen watched him. Every new line of his finebrown face made her lips firmer. 

"Yes. I'd given up hope, and then when hope grew again I was afraid tocrawl back. You'll laugh, but I was afraid to come home and findthings just the same! I couldn't have stood it, after what I learned. I would have felt like a ghost. A lot of fellows feel this way. It'sall a mistake for our home folks to think they're doing the best forus by trying to fool us into forgetting. "

"Brace, we've tried, all of us, to be worthy of you boys. Even theywho attempt the thing you mention are doing it for the best. Often itis the hardest way. "

They were both thinking of Kathryn. Monstrous as it might seem, Bracerecalled her as she looked that day--pulling the shades of theautomobile down! That ugly doubt had haunted him many times. 

Helen was half sick with fear of what would occur when Brace sawKathryn. 

"I ought not keep you, son, " she said weakly. "You ought to go toKathryn. No filial duty toward me, dear! I'm a terribly self-sufficientwoman. "

"Bully! And that's why I want to have dinner with you alone. I've gotused to the self-sufficient woman--I like her. "

It was long after eight o'clock, that first evening, when Northrupleft his mother's house. 

So powerfully hypnotic is memory that as he walked along in the blandsummer night he shivered and recalled the snowstorm that blotted himout after his last interview with Kathryn. With all earnestness he hadprepared himself for this hour. He was ready to take up his life andlive it well--only so could he justify what he had endured. Hisstarved senses, too, rose to reinforce him. He craved the beauty, sweetness, and tenderness--though he was half afraid of them. They hadso long been eliminated from his rugged existence that he wondered howhe was again to take them as his common fare. 

He paused before touching the bell at the Morris house. Again thathypnotic shiver ran over him; but to his touch on the bell there wasimmediate response. 

"Will you wait, sir, in the reception-room?" The trim maid lookedflurried. "I will tell Miss Kathryn at once. "

Northrup sat down in the dim room, fragrant with flowers, and a senseof peace overcame his doubts. 

Now the Morris house was curiously constructed. The main stairway anda stairway leading to a side entrance converged at the second landing, thus making it possible for any one to leave the house more privately, should he so desire, than by the more formal way. 

After leaving Northrup in the reception-room, the maid was stopped byMiss Anna Morris somewhere in the hall. A hurried whisperedconversation ensued and made possible what dramatically followed. 

A door above opened--the library door--and it seemed to set freeKathryn's nervous, metallic laugh and Sandy Arnold's hard, indignantwords:

"What's the hurry? I guess I understand. " Almost it seemed as if thegirl were pushing the man before her. "I was good enough to pass thetime with; pay for your fun while you weighed the chances. "

"Please, Sandy, you are cruel. " Kathryn was pleading. 

"Cruel be damned! And what are you? I want you--you've told me thatyou loved me--what's the big idea?"

"Oh! Sandy, do lower your voice. Aunt Anna will think the servants arequarrelling. "

"All right. " Sandy's voice sank a degree. "But I'm going to put thisto you square----" The two above had come to the dividing stairways. 

"What in thunder!" Sandy gave a coarse laugh. "Keeping to the servantnotion, eh? Want me to go out the side door? Why?"

"Oh! Sandy, you won't mind?--I have a reason, I'll tell you someday. "

There was a pause, a scuffle. Then:

"Sandy, you are hurting me!"

"All right, don't struggle then. Listen. I'm going away for two weeks. You promise if Northrup comes home, during that time, to tell him?"

"Yes; yes, dear, " the words came pantingly smothered. "All right, andif you don't, I will! I'm not the kind to see a woman sacrificeherself for duty. By the Lord! Northrup shall know from you--or me!Now kiss me!"

There were the hurried steps--down the side stairs! Then flying onesto the library--the maid was on her way with her message--but Northrupdashed past her, nearly knocking her over. 

He strode heavily to the library door, which had been left open, andstood there. A devil rose in him as he gazed at the girl, a bitdishevelled, but lovely beyond words. 

For a moment, smiling and cruel, he thought he would let herincriminate herself; he would humiliate her and then fling her off. But this all passed like a blinding shock. 

Kathryn had turned at his approach. She stood at bay. He frightenedher. Had he heard? Or was it mad passion that held him? Had he justcome to the house refusing to be announced?

"Brace! Brace!" she cried, her lovely eyes widening. "You have come. "

Kathryn stepped slowly forward, her arms outstretched. She looked as acaptive maiden might before the conqueror whose slave she was willingto become. As she advanced Northrup drew back. He reached a chair andgripped it. Then he said quietly:

"You see, I happened to hear you and Arnold. "

Kathryn's face went deadly white. 

"I had to tell him something, Brace; you know how Sandy is--I knew Icould explain to you; you would understand. " The pitiful, futile wordsand tone did not reach Northrup with appeal. 

"You can explain, " he said harshly, "and I think I will understand, but I want the explanation to come in my way, if you please. Justanswer my questions. Have you ever told Arnold--what he just made youpromise to tell me?"

Kathryn stood still, breathing hard. 

"Yes or no!"

The girl was being dragged to a merciless bar of judgment. Sherealized it and all her foolish defences fell; all but that power ofhers to leap to some sort of safety. There still was Arnold!

"Yes, " she said gaspingly. 

"You mean you love Arnold; that only duty held you to me?"

"Yes. "

"Well, by God!" Northrup flung his head back and laughed--"and afterall I have been fearing, too!"

To her dying day Kathryn never knew what he meant by those words. There was a moment's silence, then Northrup spoke again:

"I don't think there is anything more to say. Shall I take the sideentrance?"

Outside, the summer night was growing sultry; a sound of thunder brokethe heavy quiet of the dark street--it brought back memories that wereevil things to remember just then. 

"Good God!" Northrup thought, "we're coming back to all kinds ofhells. "

He was bitter and cynical. He hardly took into account, in that hardmoment, the feeling of release; all his foregone conclusions, hisstern resolves, had been battered down. He had got his discharge withnothing to turn to. 

In this mood he reached home. More than anything he wanted to be byhimself--but his mother's bedroom door was open and he saw her sittingby the window, watching the flashes of heat lightning. 

He went in and stood near her. 

"I've about concluded, " he said harshly, "that the fellows who keep tothe herd are the sensible ones. "

The words conveyed no meaning to Helen Northrup, but the tones did. 

"Sit down, dear, " she said calmly. "If this shower strikes us, I donot want to be alone. "

Northrup drew a chair to the window and the red flashes lighted hisface luridly. 

"Having ideals is rot. Dying for them, madness. Mother, it's all overbetween Kathryn and me!"

Helen's own development had done more for her than she would everrealize, but from out its strength and security she spoke:

"Brace, I am glad! Now you can live your ideals. "

Northrup turned sharply. 

"What do you mean?" he said. 

"Oh! we've all been so stupid; so blind. Seeing the false and callingit the truth. Being afraid; not daring to let go. My work has set mefree, son. Lately I have seen the girl that Kathryn _really_ is, looming dark over the girl she made us believe she was. I have fearedfor you, but now I am glad. Brace, there _are_ women a man can counton. Cling hold of that. "

"Yes, I know that, of course. "

"Women whose honour is as high and clear as that of the best of men. "

"Yes, Mother. "

Helen looked at the relaxed form close to her. She yearned to confidefully in him, tell him how she had guarded his interests while hefared afar from her. She thought of Mary-Clare and the love andunderstanding that now lay between her and the girl whose high honourcould, indeed, be trusted. 

But she realized that this son of hers was not the kind of man whoseneed could be supplied by replacing a loss with a possible gain. Hehad been dealt a cruel blow and must react from it sanely. The timewas not yet come for the telling of the King's Forest story. 

Northrup needed comfort, Heaven knew, but it must come from within, not without. 

At that instant Helen Northrup gripped the arms of her chair and senta quick prayer to the God of mothers of grown sons. 

"The storm seems to be passing, " she said quietly. 

"Yes, and the air is cooler. " Northrup stood up and his face was nolonger hopeless. "Are you going to stay in town all summer?" heasked. 

"I was waiting for you, dear. As soon as you get settled I must take ashort trip. Business, you know. I do enjoy the short trips, thecomings home; the feeling of moving along; not being relegated to anarmchair. "

"Mother, how _did_ you do it?"

"Oh! it was easy enough, once I threw off my own identity. Identitiesare so cramping, Brace; full of suggestions and fears. I took mymother's maiden name--Helen Dana. After that, I just flew ahead. "

"Well, I won't hold you back. You're too good for that, Mother. I'vekept the old tower room. I'm going to try to finish my book, now. Somehow I got to thinking it dead; but lately I've sort of heard itcrying out for me. I hope the same little elevator devil is on the jobyet. Funny, freckled scamp. He kissed me when I went away--I thoughthe was going to cry. Queer how a fellow remembered things like thatover there. The little snapshots were fixed pictures--and some ratherbig-sized things shrank. "

They bade each other good-night. Mother and son, they lookedmarvellously alike at that moment. Then:

"I declare, I almost forgot Manly. How has this all struck him, Mother?"

Helen's face was radiant. 

"Gave up everything! His hard-won position, his late comfort and ease. He will have to begin again--he is where he says he belongs--mendingand patching. "

"He'll reach the top, Mother. Manly's bound for the top of things. "

CHAPTER XXIII

Northrup found his tower room but little changed. The dust lay uponit, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before hewent away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth ofthings came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, isbound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they arebroken, they must be welded again together. The world; people;everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had donehis best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting hisown mistakes. 

It was slow work. Good God! how slow, and oh, the suffering!

He had paid a high price but he could now look at his city withoutshame. 

This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not leadto constructive work. The days were listless and empty. 

Northrup got out his manuscript--there was life in it, he made sure ofthat, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration inorder to justify its existence. 

But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power tobestow. 

After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilarationmingled with fear and distrust. 

So much had gone down in the wreck with Kathryn. So much that waspurely himself--not her--that readjustment was slow. How would it havebeen, he wondered, back in the King's Forest days, had he not beenupheld by a sense of duty to what was now proven false and wrong?

One could err in duty, it seemed. 

He was free! He had not exacted freedom! It had been thrust upon himso brutally, that it had, for a spell, sent him reeling into space. 

Not being able to resume his work, Northrup got to thinking aboutKing's Forest with concentration, if not intelligence. 

He had purposely refrained, while he was away, from dwelling upon itas a place in which he had some rights. He used, occasionally, tothink of Twombley, sitting like a silent, wary watch-dog, keeping aneye on his interests. He had heard of the Maclin tragedy--HelenNorthrup felt it wise to give him that information while withholdingmuch more; that was, in a way, public knowledge. 

Things were at least safe now in the Forest, Northrup believed. Thisbrought him to the closer circle. He felt a sudden homesickness forthe inn and the blessed old pair. A kind of mental hunger evolved fromthis unwholesome brooding that drove Northrup, as hunger alone can, tosnatch whatever he could for his growing desire to feed upon. 

He shifted his thoughts from Mary-Clare and the Heathcotes to LarryRivers. Where was he? Had he kept his part of the bargain? What hadMary-Clare done with her hard-won freedom?

Sitting alone under his dome of changing lights, Northrup became aprey to whimsical fancies that amused while they hurt. 

As the lighted city rose above the coarser elements that formed it, sothe woman, Mary-Clare, towered over other women. Such women asKathryn! The bitterness of pain lurked here as, unconsciously, Northrup went back over the wasted years of misplaced faith. 

The sweet human qualities he knew were not lacking in Mary-Clare. Theywere simply heightened, brightened. 

All this led to but one thing. 

Something was bound to happen, and suddenly Northrup decided to go toKing's Forest!

Once this decision was reached he realized that he had been travellingtoward it since the night of his scene with Kathryn. The struggle wasover. He was at rest, and began cheerfully to make preparations. Ofcourse, he argued, he meant to keep the spirit, if not the letter, ofhis agreement with Larry Rivers. 

This was not safe reasoning, and he set it aside impatiently. 

He waited a few days, deliberating, hoping his mother would returnfrom a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When atthe end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and setforth, on foot again, for the Forest. 

He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body servedhim well and his desire spurred him on. 

When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struckhim. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near theyellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had notheard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have thatlost, weird note that used to mark it--there was definiteness about itthat suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting. 

"Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went tothe door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to dothat. 

How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, andfor a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes werefilled with the late afternoon glow. 

It was autumn and the days were growing short. 

Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chancevisitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stayslong. "

At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode acrossthe space separating him from Larry Rivers!

Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, histhin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow!It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmerlight, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited. 

Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials. 

"So you've been over there, too?" was what he said. The angry gleam inhis eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the commonlanguage of comrades-in-arms. 

"Yes, I've been there, " Larry answered. "When I came back, I hadnowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! HowI've wanted to tell you. "

"Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either ofus. We've both drifted back. "

Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the fullsignificance of what life had done to Rivers!

"Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in--before any one comes. They won't let me talk. It's like being in prison. It's hell. I'vethought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I darednot even ask for you!"

Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grewashen. 

"I'm listening, Rivers. Go on. "

Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes wheretime was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly grippeda listener. The conventions were swept aside. 

"They--they couldn't understand, anyway, " Larry broke in. "They've gota fixed idea of me; they wouldn't know what it was that changed me, but you will. 

"Everyone's kind. I haven't anything to complain of, but good God!Northrup, I'm dying, and what's to be done--must be done quickly. You--see how it is?"

"Yes, Rivers, I see. " There could be no mercy in deceiving thisdesperate man. 

"I knew you would. Day after day, lately, I've been saying that overin my mind. I remembered the night in the shack on the Point. I knewyou would understand!"

"Perhaps your longing brought me, Rivers. Things like that happen, youknow. "

Northrup, moved by pity, laid his hand on the shrunken ones near him. All feeling of antagonism was gone. 

"It began the night I was shot, " Larry's voice fell, "and Mary-Clarewill not let me talk of those times. She thinks the memory will keepme from getting well! Good Lord! Getting well! Me!

"There were two of us that night, Northrup, two of us crawling awayfrom the hell in the dark. You know!"

"Yes, Rivers, I know. "

"I'd never met him--the other chap--before, but we got talking to eachother, when we could, so as to--to keep ourselves alive. I told himabout Mary-Clare and Noreen. I couldn't think of anything else. Theredidn't seem to be anything else. The other fellow hadn't any one, hesaid. 

"When help came, there was only room for one. One had to wait. 

"That other chap, " Larry moistened his lips in the old nervous fashionthat Northrup recalled, "that other chap kept telling them about mywife and child--he said he could wait; but they must take me!

"God! Northrup, I think I urged them to take him. I hope I did, but Icannot remember--I might not have, you know. I can remember what hesaid, but I can't recall what I said. "

"I think, Rivers, you played fair!"

"Why? Northrup, what makes you think that?" The haggard face seemed tolook less ghastly. 

"I've seen others do it at such a time. "

"Others like me?"

"Yes, Rivers, many times. "

"Well, there were weeks when nothing mattered, " Larry went on, "andthen I began to come around, but something in me was different. Iwanted, God hearing me, Northrup, I wanted to make what that otherchap had done for me--worth while. 

"When I got to counting up what I'd gone through and holding to thenew way I felt, I began to get well--and--then I came home. Came to myfather's house, Northrup--that's what Mary-Clare said when she sawme. 

"That's what it is--my father's house. You catch on?"

"Yes, Rivers, I catch on. " Then after a pause: "Let me light thelamp. " But Rivers caught hold of him. 

"No, don't waste time--they may come back at any moment--there'llnever be another chance. "

"All right, go on, Rivers. "

The soft autumn day was drawing to its close, but the west was stillgolden. The light fell on the two men near the window; one shivered. 

"There isn't much more to say. I wanted you to know that I'm not goingto be in the way very long. 

"You and I talked man to man once back there in the shack. Northrup, we must do it now. We needn't be damned fools. I've got a line onMary-Clare and yes, thank God! on you. I can trust you both. Shemustn't know. When it's all over, I want her to have the feeling thatshe's played square. She has, but if she thought I felt as I doto-day, it would hurt her. You understand? She's like that. Why, she'sfixed it up in her mind that I'm going to pull through, and she'sbraced to do her part to the end; but"--here Larry paused, his dulleyes filled with hot tears; his strength was almost gone--"but Iwanted you to help her--if it means what it once did to you. "

"It means that and more, Rivers. "

Northrup heard his own words with a kind of shock. Again he and Riverswere stripped bare as once before they had been. 

"It--it won't be long, Northrup--there's damned little I can do to--tomake good, but--I can do this. "

The choking voice fell into silence. Presently Northrup stood up. Years seemed to have passed since he had come into the room. It was atrick of life, in the Forest, when big things happened--they swept allbefore them. 

"Rivers, you are a brave man, " he slowly said. "Will you shakehands?"

The thin cold fingers instantly responded. 

"God helping me, I will not betray your trust. Once I would not havebeen so sure of myself, but you and I have been taught some strangetruths. "

Then something of the old Larry flashed to the surface: the old, weakrelaxing, the unmoral craving for another's solution of his problems. 

"Oh, it always has to be someone to help me out, " he said. 

"You know about Maclin?"

"Yes, Rivers. "

"Well, I did the turn for that damned scoundrel. I got the Forest outof his clutches. "

"Yes, you did when you got your eyes opened, Rivers. "

"They're open now, Northrup, but there always has to be--someone tohelp me out. "

"Rivers, where is your wife?" So suddenly did Northrup ask this thatLarry started and gave a quick laugh. 

"She went to that cabin of hers--you know?"

"Yes, I know. "

Both men were reliving old scenes. 

Then Larry spoke, but the laugh no longer rang in his tone:

"She'll be coming, by now, down the trail, " he whispered. "Go and meether, tell her you've been here, that I told you where she was--nothingmore! Nothing more. Ever!"

"That's right, never!" Northrup murmured. Then he added:

"I'll come back with her, Rivers, soon. I'm going to stay at the innfor a time. "

Their hands clung together for a moment longer while one manrelinquished, the other accepted. Then Northrup turned to the door. 

There was a dull purplish glow falling on the Forest. The subtle, haunting smell of wood smoke rose pungently. It brought back, almosthurtingly, the past. Northrup walked rapidly along the trail. Hurrying, hurrying to meet--he knew not what!

Presently he saw Mary-Clare, from a distance, in the ghostly woods. Her head was bowed, her hands clasped lightly before her. There was nohaste, no anticipation in her appearance; she simply came along!

The sight of youth beaten is a terrible sight, and Mary-Clare, off herguard, alone and suffering, believed herself beaten. She was close toNorthrup before she saw him. For a moment he feared the shock wasgoing to be too great for her endurance. She turned white--then thequick red rose threateningly, the eyes dimmed. 

Northrup did not speak--he could not. With gratitude he presently sawthe dear head lift bravely, the trembling smile curl her cold lips. 

"You--have come!"

"Yes, Mary-Clare. "

"How--did you know--where I was?"

"I stopped at the yellow house. I saw your--I saw Larry--he told mewhere to find you. "

"He told you that?"

The bravery flickered--but pride rallied. 

"He is very changed. " The words were chosen carefully. "He is verypatient and--and Noreen loves him. She never could have, if he had notcome back! She--well, you remember how she used to take care of me?"

"Yes, Mary-Clare. "

"She takes care of her father in that way, now that she understandshis need. "

"She would. That would be Noreen's way. "

"Yes, her way. And I am glad he came back to us. It might all havebeen so different. "

There was a suggestion of passionate defence in the low, hurriedwords, a quick insistence that Northrup accept her position as sheherself was doing. 

"Yes, Mary-Clare. Your old philosophy has proved itself. "

"I am glad you believe that. "

"I have come to the Forest to tell you so. The things that do notcount drop away. We do not have to push them from our lives. "

"Oh! I am glad to hear you say that. "

Mary-Clare caught her breath. 

There seemed to be nothing to keep them apart now--a word, a quicksentence were all that were necessary to bridge the past and thepresent. Neither dared consider the future. 

The small, common things crept into the conversation for a time, thenMary-Clare asked hesitatingly:

"You--you are happy? And your book?"

"The book is awaiting its time, Mary-Clare. I must live up to it. Iknow that now. And the girl you once saw here, well! that is all past. It was one of those things that fell away!"

There was nothing to say to this, but Northrup heard a sharp indrawingof the breath, and felt the girl beside him stumble on the darkeningtrail. 

"You know I went across the water to do my part?" he asked quickly. 

"You would, of course. That call found such men as you. Larry went, too!" This came proudly. 

"Yes, and he paid more than I did, Mary-Clare. "

"He had more to pay--there was Maclin. Do you know about Maclin?"

"Yes. It was damnable. We all scented the evil, but we're not the sortof people to believe such deviltry until it's forced upon us. "

"It frightened us all terribly, " Mary-Clare's voice would always holdfear when she spoke of Maclin. "I do not know what would have happenedto the Forest if--a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were atthe worst. "

There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been halfknown. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clarespoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bitdazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad, illuminating truth! "You have heard of Mrs. Dana?" Mary-Clareasked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her. 

"Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at thepsychological moment. "

"She set us to work!" Mary-Clare went on. "She is the most wonderfulwoman I ever knew. "

"She must be!"

Slower and slower the two walked down the trail. They were clutchingthe few golden moments. 

It was quite dark when they came to the yellow house. The door waswide open, the heart of the little home lay bare to the passer-by. 

Jan-an was on her knees by the hearth, puffing to life the kindlingsshe had lighted. Larry's chair was drawn close and upon its arm Noreenwas perched. 

"They always leave it so for me, " Mary-Clare whispered. "You see howeverything is?"

"Yes, I see, Mary-Clare. "

Northrup reached forth and drew the small clasped hands into hisown!--then he bent and kissed them. 

"I see, I see. "

"And you will come in? Larry loves company. "

"Not to-night, Mary-Clare, but to-morrow. I am going to stay at theinn for a few days. "

"Oh! I am glad!" Almost the brave voice broke. 

"There is something else I see, my dear, " Northrup ignored the poordisguise for a moment. "I see the meaning of _you_ as I never saw itbefore. You have never broken faith! That is above all else--it is allelse. "

"I have tried. " Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caughtthe note of joy in her grieving voice. 

"You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you. "

"Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that. "

"Good-night. " Northrup released the cold hands--they clung for amoment in a weak, human way. "There is to-morrow, you know, " hewhispered. 

Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strangefeeling of having left something back there in the yellow house. 

He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew;the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and onahead the lights of the inn twinkled. 

And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemedto be following, following in the darkness. 

Northrup's lips closed grimly. He squared his shoulders to his task. 

He must go on, keeping his mind fixed upon the brighter hope thatMary-Clare could not, now, see; must not now see. For her, there mustbe the dark stretch; for him the glory of keeping the brightnessundimmed--it must be a safe place for her to rest in, by and by. "Shehas kept the faith with life, " Northrup thought. "She will keep itwith death--but love must keep faith with her. "

THE END