"Yes, brother, and what else?"

"At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up the bar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks and protecting 'em." Peter gulped.

"I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter," Polly remarked fiercely.

"Then Maclin came!" Peter groaned out the words, for this was the crux of the matter.

"Yes—Maclin came." Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. "And I think, looking back, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was a tester."

Peter gave a rumbling laugh.

"Maclin a tester!" he repeated. "Lord, Polly, yer notions are more messing than clearing."

"Well, anyway, Peter Heathcote, Maclin came, and this I do say: places are like folks—if their constitutions are all right, they don't take disease. Maclin was a disease, and we caught him! He settled on us and we hadn't vim enough to know and understand what he was. If it hadn't been Maclin it would have been another. As things are I do feel that Maclin has cleared our systems! The folks were wakened by him as nothing 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 we just let folks fall into the hands of that evil man. Think of anything, bearing the image of God taking advantage of simple, honest people and letting them into what he did!"

"I never did think Maclin was in the image of God, Peter. All God's children ain't the spitting image of Him. And Maclin certainly did us a good turn when he found iron on the Point. The iron's here—if he ain't!"

"He meant to turn that and his damned inventions against us. Betray us to an enemy! And us just sitting and letting him do it!"

"Well, he didn't do it!" Polly snapped. "And it seems like God is giving us another chance; same as He is the world."

Peter got up and stumped noisily about the kitchen much to Ginger's surprise 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 where it belongs and on the job. It's shame to us, Peter, if we don't use every scrap that's left of us to undo the failings of the past."

"And that night!" Peter groaned, recalling the night of Maclin's arrest. "That's what comes of being false to yer trust. Terrible, terrible! Twombley standing over Maclin with his gun after finding him flashing lights to God knows who, and then those government men hauling things out of his bags—why, Polly, in the middle of some black nights I get to seeing the look on Maclin's face when he was caught!"

"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 that the Lord had to use what He had, and there was only us to use? Better Twombley's gun than Maclin's, and you know, full well, they found two ugly looking guns in Maclin's bag all packed with papers and pictures of the mines and bits of our own rock—what showed iron. Peter, I ain't a bloodthirsty woman and the Lord knows I don't hunger for my fellow'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—"the look on Maclin's face—when he was caught!"

"Well! he ought to have had a look!" Polly snapped. "Several of us gave him looks. I remember that the Point men looked just as if it was resurrection 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! I always feel as if one oughtn't to harry a trapped thing. That's not God's way. It was all my fault! What was I a magistrate for—and just standing by—staring?"

"Well, he should have held still—he put up fight. Brother, you make me 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 mush instead 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 was leading 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, but we've got what's left. Peter, I put it up to you—what are we going to do about it?"

"What can we do?" Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spread knees—for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. "Has any one heard of Larry?"

This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not be asked.

"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 him and"—Polly choked—"he begged our pardons—for Maclin. He's gone to that war—over there. He said it was all he could do—with himself, to prove against Maclin."

A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catch in her voice:

"Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Better give Larry a chance to do his proving—before we get any hopes or fears to acting up."

"I guess that's sensible," Peter nodded, "he mightn't do it, you know."

Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping from his face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losing its hold.

"It's powerful hot here!" Peter muttered, wiping his face. "And what in 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 the door and smelt at the crack.

"Fits?" Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration.

"I believe, Peter," she said solemnly, "Ginger smells—spring! I thought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges by the 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't know spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge of winter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Ginger old fellow, what's the matter?"

Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. A soft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorway and 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 closet for 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 old doc'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 her spectacles to the far-off angle.

And while this was occurring at the inn there was a tap on the door of the yellow house, and with its welcoming characteristic in full play, the door swung in, leaving a tall woman on the threshold flushed and apologetic.

"I never saw such a responsive door!" she said. "I really knocked very gently. Please tell me how far it is to the inn?"

Mary-Clare, her little group of children about her, looked up and smiled. The smile and the eyes made the stranger's breath come a bit quicker.

"Just three miles to the south." Mary-Clare came close. "You are walking? 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't forget the other one!"

"Thank you so much," the stranger was speaking. "But may I rest here for a moment? These children—is it a school."

"A queer one, I'm afraid. We're all teachers, all pupils—even the dogs."

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 have something to say to you."

Mary-Clare's face went white. Since Maclin's exposure the girl knew a spiritual 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 said quietly:

"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 of King'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-Clare and took her hands. "I was directed to you, Mrs. Rivers. You must help me do away with a wrong impression of the Forest. Together we will tell a story to the outside world that will change a great many things. We will tell the truth and set the Forest free from suspicion."

"Oh! can we? Why, that would be the most splendid thing. We're all so—so frightened."

"Yes. I know. See, I have my credentials"—Mrs. Dana took a notebook from her bag. "The mines—well, all the danger there is destroyed. The mines 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 the Point?"

"No; I gave it to my husband." The words were whispered. "And he sold it to a Mr. Northrup." There was no holding back in King's Forest these 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 into Mary-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 you are willing, I would love to borrow your little girl."

On the lake road Noreen, after a few skirmishes, succumbed to one of her sudden likings—she abandoned herself to Mrs. Dana's charm. With her head coquettishly set slantwise she fixed her grave eyes—they were 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 the ghost-wind brought him. He only stayed a little while, but things aren't ever going to be the same again. No'm, not ever! He even liked Jan-an, and most folks don't—at first. His name is Mr. Northrup, but Jan-an and I call him The Man."

"And he sang for you?"

"Yes'm. We sang together, marching along—this way!" Noreen swung the hand that held hers. "Do you know—'Green jacket, red cap'?" she asked.

"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 the rest, 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 was thinking of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur of moving 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 your eyes—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 my eyes."

"There's the inn!" Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turning out 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 her sojourn 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 the Forest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened—and a school. 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 spring sunshine by Twombley's door.

"The Government's behind her!" he muttered confidently. "And, Heathcote, I ain't monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclin night—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," Twombley rambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. "And you know what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour's mighty satisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there's more in it than just colour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showing up on the 'tarnal paint that's slushed everywhere."

"Mighty queer doings!" Heathcote agreed.

"The women are plumb crazy over this government woman," Twombley went on, "and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare are together early and late. Thick as corn mush."

Peter drew his chair closer.

"Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest," he whispered. "Writing things allas makes me nervous. What's writ—is fixed."

"Gosh! Heathcote; it's like the Judgment Day and no place to hide in!"

"That's about it, Twombley. No place to hide in."

And then after weeks of strenuous effort Mrs. Dana went away as suddenly as she had come. She simply disappeared! But there was a peculiar sense of waiting in the Forest and a going on with what had been begun. The momentum carried the people along. The church was repaired, a school house started, the Point cleaned.

* * * * *

The summer passed, another winter—not so cruel as the last—and the spring came, less violently.

* * * * *

It was early summer when another event shook the none-too-steady Forest. Larry came home!

Jan-an discovered him sitting on a mossy rock, his back against a tree. 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's voice.

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 his voice 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, when the sound of steps startled her. She looked up, then her face changed as a dying face does.

"Larry!" she faltered. She was utterly unprepared. She had been kept in ignorance of the little that others knew.

"I—I'm played out—but I can go on." Larry's voice was husky and he drooped against Jan-an. Then Mary-Clare came forward, her arms opened wide, 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, for the crutch clattered to the floor.

"My father's home," he repeated like a hurt child—"that's it—my father's home."



CHAPTER XXII

But beyond that exalted moment stretched the plain, drear days. Days holding subtle danger and marvellous revelations.

Larry, with his superficial gripping of surface things, grew merry and childishly happy. He had paid a debt, God knew. Shocked by the Maclin exposure, he had been roused to decency and purpose as he had never been before. He felt now that he had redeemed the past, and Mary-Clare's gentleness and kindness meant but one thing to Rivers. And he wanted that thing. His own partial regeneration had been evolved through hours of remorse and contrition. Alone, under strange skies and during long, danger-filled nights, he had caught a glimpse of his poor, shivering soul, and it had brought him low in fear, then high in hope.

"Perhaps, if I pay and pay"—he had pleaded with the sad thing—"I can win out yet!"

And sitting in the warm, sunny room of the yellow house, Larry began to believe he had! It was always so easy for him to see one small spot.

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 the taste, in time, and the most thrilling tales wax dull when they are worn to shreds. More and more Larry grew to depend upon Mary-Clare and Noreen for company and upon Jan-an for a never-failing listener to his tales.

Noreen, just now, puzzled Mary-Clare. The child's old aversion to her father seemed to have passed utterly from her thought. She was devoted to him; touched his maimed body reverently, and wooed him from the sad moments that presently began to overpower him.

She assumed an old and protecting manner toward him that would have been 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 tiny shoulder, Noreen sang him to sleep.

"You're my baby, daddy-linkum, and I'm your motherly. Come, shut your eyes, and lall a leep!"

And Larry would sleep, often to awake with an unwholesome merriment that 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 green bushes. Suddenly Larry said:

"It's great, this being home!"

"I'm glad home was here for you to come to, Larry." Mary-Clare felt her 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, and crawled along——"

"Please, Larry, we have agreed not to talk of that!"

"Yes, I know, but even then, while I was crawling, I got to thinking what I was crawling back to—and counting the chances and whether it was 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 you before. 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 a load on her. She would bear it until she dropped."

"Don't get talking booky, Mary-Clare. You don't as much as you once did." A pause, then hardly above a whisper: "Do you go to the cabin in the woods now, Mary-Clare?"

"I haven't been there for a long while, Larry." Mary-Clare's hands clutched each other until the bones ached.

"I'm sorry, Mary-Clare, God knows I am, for what I did up there. It was the note as drove me mad. Across—over there, I used to read that note, 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 and Mary-Clare looked down at the empty place where Larry's strong right leg should have been. A divine pity stirred her, but she knew now, as always, that Larry did not crave pity; sympathy; and the awful Truth upheld Mary-Clare in her weak moment. She would never again fail herself 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 touched her.

"Look at me, Mary-Clare!"

There was the tone of the conqueror in the words—Larry laughed. Then Mary-Clare looked at him! Long and unfalteringly she let her eyes meet his, and there was that in them that no man misunderstands.

"You mean you do not care?" Larry's voice shook like a frightened child's; "that you'll never care?"

"I care tremendously, Larry, and I will do my best. But you must not ask 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 had been a cable—then the long silence. He was on the way, that was all she knew.

In the work-room Helen tried to keep to the routine of her days. Her work had saved her; strengthened her. Her contact with people had given her vision and sympathy. She was marvellously changed, but of that she took little heed.

And then Northrup came, unannounced. He stood in the doorway of the room 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 that possibility among the things that his experience had cost him. A wave of 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 that welcomed the dead back to life. Just for one, poor human moment, they could not speak, they simply clung close. After that, life caught them in its common current.

The afternoon, warm and sunny, made it possible for the windows to be open wide; there were flowers blooming in a window-box and a cool breeze, now and again, drew the white curtains out, then released them with a little sighing sound. The peacefulness and security stirred Northrup's imagination.

"It doesn't seem possible, you know!" he said.

"Being home, dear?" Helen watched him. Every new line of his fine brown face made her lips firmer.

"Yes. I'd given up hope, and then when hope grew again I was afraid to crawl back. You'll laugh, but I was afraid to come home and find things 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's all a mistake for our home folks to think they're doing the best for us by trying to fool us into forgetting."

"Brace, we've tried, all of us, to be worthy of you boys. Even they who attempt the thing you mention are doing it for the best. Often it is the hardest way."

They were both thinking of Kathryn. Monstrous as it might seem, Brace recalled her as she looked that day—pulling the shades of the automobile down! That ugly doubt had haunted him many times.

Helen was half sick with fear of what would occur when Brace saw Kathryn.

"I ought not keep you, son," she said weakly. "You ought to go to Kathryn. No filial duty toward me, dear! I'm a terribly self-sufficient woman."

"Bully! And that's why I want to have dinner with you alone. I've got used to the self-sufficient woman—I like her."

It was long after eight o'clock, that first evening, when Northrup left his mother's house.

So powerfully hypnotic is memory that as he walked along in the bland summer night he shivered and recalled the snowstorm that blotted him out after his last interview with Kathryn. With all earnestness he had prepared himself for this hour. He was ready to take up his life and live it well—only so could he justify what he had endured. His starved senses, too, rose to reinforce him. He craved the beauty, sweetness, and tenderness—though he was half afraid of them. They had so long been eliminated from his rugged existence that he wondered how he was again to take them as his common fare.

He paused before touching the bell at the Morris house. Again that hypnotic shiver ran over him; but to his touch on the bell there was immediate response.

"Will you wait, sir, in the reception-room?" The trim maid looked flurried. "I will tell Miss Kathryn at once."

Northrup sat down in the dim room, fragrant with flowers, and a sense of peace overcame his doubts.

Now the Morris house was curiously constructed. The main stairway and a 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 by Miss Anna Morris somewhere in the hall. A hurried whispered conversation ensued and made possible what dramatically followed.

A door above opened—the library door—and it seemed to set free Kathryn's nervous, metallic laugh and Sandy Arnold's hard, indignant words:

"What's the hurry? I guess I understand." Almost it seemed as if the girl were pushing the man before her. "I was good enough to pass the time 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 that you loved me—what's the big idea?"

"Oh! Sandy, do lower your voice. Aunt Anna will think the servants are quarrelling."

"All right." Sandy's voice sank a degree. "But I'm going to put this to you square——" The two above had come to the dividing stairways.

"What in thunder!" Sandy gave a coarse laugh. "Keeping to the servant notion, eh? Want me to go out the side door? Why?"

"Oh! Sandy, you won't mind?—I have a reason, I'll tell you some day."

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, and if you don't, I will! I'm not the kind to see a woman sacrifice herself 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 ones to the library—the maid was on her way with her message—but Northrup dashed past her, nearly knocking her over.

He strode heavily to the library door, which had been left open, and stood there. A devil rose in him as he gazed at the girl, a bit dishevelled, but lovely beyond words.

For a moment, smiling and cruel, he thought he would let her incriminate 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 frightened her. Had he heard? Or was it mad passion that held him? Had he just come 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 a captive maiden might before the conqueror whose slave she was willing to become. As she advanced Northrup drew back. He reached a chair and gripped 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 I could explain to you; you would understand." The pitiful, futile words and 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. Just answer my questions. Have you ever told Arnold—what he just made you promise to tell me?"

Kathryn stood still, breathing hard.

"Yes or no!"

The girl was being dragged to a merciless bar of judgment. She realized it and all her foolish defences fell; all but that power of hers 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 after all 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 side entrance?"

Outside, the summer night was growing sultry; a sound of thunder broke the heavy quiet of the dark street—it brought back memories that were evil things to remember just then.

"Good God!" Northrup thought, "we're coming back to all kinds of hells."

He was bitter and cynical. He hardly took into account, in that hard moment, the feeling of release; all his foregone conclusions, his stern resolves, had been battered down. He had got his discharge with nothing to turn to.

In this mood he reached home. More than anything he wanted to be by himself—but his mother's bedroom door was open and he saw her sitting by 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 to the 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 do not want to be alone."

Northrup drew a chair to the window and the red flashes lighted his face luridly.

"Having ideals is rot. Dying for them, madness. Mother, it's all over between Kathryn and me!"

Helen's own development had done more for her than she would ever realize, 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 calling it the truth. Being afraid; not daring to let go. My work has set me free, son. Lately I have seen the girl that Kathryn really is, looming dark over the girl she made us believe she was. I have feared for you, but now I am glad. Brace, there are women a man can count on. 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 confide fully in him, tell him how she had guarded his interests while he fared afar from her. She thought of Mary-Clare and the love and understanding that now lay between her and the girl whose high honour could, indeed, be trusted.

But she realized that this son of hers was not the kind of man whose need could be supplied by replacing a loss with a possible gain. He had been dealt a cruel blow and must react from it sanely. The time was 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 sent a 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 no longer hopeless. "Are you going to stay in town all summer?" he asked.

"I was waiting for you, dear. As soon as you get settled I must take a short trip. Business, you know. I do enjoy the short trips, the comings home; the feeling of moving along; not being relegated to an armchair."

"Mother, how did you do it?"

"Oh! it was easy enough, once I threw off my own identity. Identities are so cramping, Brace; full of suggestions and fears. I took my mother'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've kept 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 it crying out for me. I hope the same little elevator devil is on the job yet. Funny, freckled scamp. He kissed me when I went away—I thought he was going to cry. Queer how a fellow remembered things like that over there. The little snapshots were fixed pictures—and some rather big-sized things shrank."

They bade each other good-night. Mother and son, they looked marvellously 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—mending and 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 upon it, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before he went away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth of things came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, is bound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they are broken, they must be welded again together. The world; people; everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had done his best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting his own 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 without shame.

This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not lead to constructive work. The days were listless and empty.

Northrup got out his manuscript—there was life in it, he made sure of that, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration in order to justify its existence.

But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power to bestow.

After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilaration mingled with fear and distrust.

So much had gone down in the wreck with Kathryn. So much that was purely himself—not her—that readjustment was slow. How would it have been, he wondered, back in the King's Forest days, had he not been upheld 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 him so brutally, that it had, for a spell, sent him reeling into space.

Not being able to resume his work, Northrup got to thinking about King's Forest with concentration, if not intelligence.

He had purposely refrained, while he was away, from dwelling upon it as a place in which he had some rights. He used, occasionally, to think of Twombley, sitting like a silent, wary watch-dog, keeping an eye on his interests. He had heard of the Maclin tragedy—Helen Northrup felt it wise to give him that information while withholding much more; that was, in a way, public knowledge.

Things were at least safe now in the Forest, Northrup believed. This brought him to the closer circle. He felt a sudden homesickness for the inn and the blessed old pair. A kind of mental hunger evolved from this unwholesome brooding that drove Northrup, as hunger alone can, to snatch whatever he could for his growing desire to feed upon.

He shifted his thoughts from Mary-Clare and the Heathcotes to Larry Rivers. Where was he? Had he kept his part of the bargain? What had Mary-Clare done with her hard-won freedom?

Sitting alone under his dome of changing lights, Northrup became a prey to whimsical fancies that amused while they hurt.

As the lighted city rose above the coarser elements that formed it, so the woman, Mary-Clare, towered over other women. Such women as Kathryn! 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. They were simply heightened, brightened.

All this led to but one thing.

Something was bound to happen, and suddenly Northrup decided to go to King's Forest!

Once this decision was reached he realized that he had been travelling toward it since the night of his scene with Kathryn. The struggle was over. He was at rest, and began cheerfully to make preparations. Of course, he argued, he meant to keep the spirit, if not the letter, of his 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 return from a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When at the end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and set forth, on foot again, for the Forest.

He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body served him well and his desire spurred him on.

When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struck him. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near the yellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had not heard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have that lost, weird note that used to mark it—there was definiteness about it that suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting.

"Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went to the door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to do that.

How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, and for a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes were filled 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 chance visitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays long."

At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across the space separating him from Larry Rivers!

Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow! It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer light, 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 in his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common language of comrades-in-arms.

"Yes, I've been there," Larry answered. "When I came back, I had nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! How I've wanted to tell you."

"Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of us. We've both drifted back."

Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full significance 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've thought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I dared not even ask for you!"

Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew ashen.

"I'm listening, Rivers. Go on."

Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped a listener. The conventions were swept aside.

"They—they couldn't understand, anyway," Larry broke in. "They've got a 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 this desperate man.

"I knew you would. Day after day, lately, I've been saying that over in my mind. I remembered the night in the shack on the Point. I knew you would understand!"

"Perhaps your longing brought me, Rivers. Things like that happen, you know."

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-Clare will not let me talk of those times. She thinks the memory will keep me from getting well! Good Lord! Getting well! Me!

"There were two of us that night, Northrup, two of us crawling away from 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 each other, when we could, so as to—to keep ourselves alive. I told him about Mary-Clare and Noreen. I couldn't think of anything else. There didn't seem to be anything else. The other fellow hadn't any one, he said.

"When help came, there was only room for one. One had to wait.

"That other chap," Larry moistened his lips in the old nervous fashion that Northrup recalled, "that other chap kept telling them about my wife 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 I cannot remember—I might not have, you know. I can remember what he said, 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 to look 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, "and then I began to come around, but something in me was different. I wanted, God hearing me, Northrup, I wanted to make what that other chap had done for me—worth while.

"When I got to counting up what I'd gone through and holding to the new way I felt, I began to get well—and—then I came home. Came to my father's house, Northrup—that's what Mary-Clare said when she saw me.

"That's what it is—my father's house. You catch on?"

"Yes, Rivers, I catch on." Then after a pause: "Let me light the lamp." But Rivers caught hold of him.

"No, don't waste time—they may come back at any moment—there'll never be another chance."

"All right, go on, Rivers."

The soft autumn day was drawing to its close, but the west was still golden. 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 going to 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 on Mary-Clare and yes, thank God! on you. I can trust you both. She mustn't know. When it's all over, I want her to have the feeling that she's played square. She has, but if she thought I felt as I do to-day, it would hurt her. You understand? She's like that. Why, she's fixed it up in her mind that I'm going to pull through, and she's braced to do her part to the end; but"—here Larry paused, his dull eyes filled with hot tears; his strength was almost gone—"but I wanted 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 Rivers were stripped bare as once before they had been.

"It—it won't be long, Northrup—there's damned little I can do to—to make 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 a trick of life, in the Forest, when big things happened—they swept all before them.

"Rivers, you are a brave man," he slowly said. "Will you shake hands?"

The thin cold fingers instantly responded.

"God helping me, I will not betray your trust. Once I would not have been so sure of myself, but you and I have been taught some strange truths."

Then something of the old Larry flashed to the surface: the old, weak relaxing, 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 out of his clutches."

"Yes, you did when you got your eyes opened, Rivers."

"They're open now, Northrup, but there always has to be—someone to help me out."

"Rivers, where is your wife?" So suddenly did Northrup ask this that Larry 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 meet her, tell her you've been here, that I told you where she was—nothing more! 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 inn for a time."

Their hands clung together for a moment longer while one man relinquished, 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, almost hurtingly, 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 no haste, no anticipation in her appearance; she simply came along!

The sight of youth beaten is a terrible sight, and Mary-Clare, off her guard, alone and suffering, believed herself beaten. She was close to Northrup before she saw him. For a moment he feared the shock was going to be too great for her endurance. She turned white—then the quick red rose threateningly, the eyes dimmed.

Northrup did not speak—he could not. With gratitude he presently saw the 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 me where to find you."

"He told you that?"

The bravery flickered—but pride rallied.

"He is very changed." The words were chosen carefully. "He is very patient and—and Noreen loves him. She never could have, if he had not come 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 understands his need."

"She would. That would be Noreen's way."

"Yes, her way. And I am glad he came back to us. It might all have been so different."

There was a suggestion of passionate defence in the low, hurried words, a quick insistence that Northrup accept her position as she herself 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 not count 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 quick sentence were all that were necessary to bridge the past and the present. Neither dared consider the future.

The small, common things crept into the conversation for a time, then Mary-Clare asked hesitatingly:

"You—you are happy? And your book?"

"The book is awaiting its time, Mary-Clare. I must live up to it. I know 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 indrawing of the breath, and felt the girl beside him stumble on the darkening trail.

"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 sort of people to believe such deviltry until it's forced upon us."

"It frightened us all terribly," Mary-Clare's voice would always hold fear when she spoke of Maclin. "I do not know what would have happened to the Forest if—a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were at the worst."

There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been half known. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clare spoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bit dazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad, illuminating truth! "You have heard of Mrs. Dana?" Mary-Clare asked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her.

"Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at the psychological moment."

"She set us to work!" Mary-Clare went on. "She is the most wonderful woman I ever knew."

"She must be!"

Slower and slower the two walked down the trail. They were clutching the few golden moments.

It was quite dark when they came to the yellow house. The door was wide 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 kindlings she had lighted. Larry's chair was drawn close and upon its arm Noreen was perched.

"They always leave it so for me," Mary-Clare whispered. "You see how everything is?"

"Yes, I see, Mary-Clare."

Northrup reached forth and drew the small clasped hands into his own!—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 the inn for a few days."

"Oh! I am glad!" Almost the brave voice broke.

"There is something else I see, my dear," Northrup ignored the poor disguise for a moment. "I see the meaning of you as I never saw it before. You have never broken faith! That is above all else—it is all else."

"I have tried." Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught the 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 a moment in a weak, human way. "There is to-morrow, you know," he whispered.

Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange feeling 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 on ahead the lights of the inn twinkled.

And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemed to 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 that Mary-Clare could not, now, see; must not now see. For her, there must be the dark stretch; for him the glory of keeping the brightness undimmed—it must be a safe place for her to rest in, by and by. "She has kept the faith with life," Northrup thought. "She will keep it with death—but love must keep faith with her."

THE END