Unconsciously he searched along the way for the landmarks he had watched with so much interest the past summer. He found the nest where the quail had reared their brood, empty now, and covered thick with the scattered dust of passing teams. Forgetful that he was weary he climbed well up the bole of a shaggy old friend, to peep in at the opening of a deserted woodpecker's home. He came to the big tree at whose roots, on that other night he remembered so well, he had thrown himself hopelessly. With a stolid sort of curiosity he looked down at the spot. Yes, there was the place. A few fallen leaves were scattered upon the earth where his body had pressed tightly against the tree-trunk, and there were the hollows where his clenched hands had found hold. A dull rebellion crept over him as he looked. It had been needless to torture him so! He came in sight of the familiar little farm-house and turned in slowly at the break between the trees. It was growing dark now, but the odor of tobacco was on the air, and looking closely, he could catch the gleam from a glowing pipe-bowl in the doorway. He passed his hand across his brow, almost doubting--it was all so like--before-- A light step came tapping quickly down the pathway toward him. "Guy!" a voice called softly. "Guy, is that you?" The voice was quite near him now, and he stopped short, a big maple above him. "Yes, Faith." She came up close, peering into the shadow. "Guy--" she repeated, "Guy, where are you?" He reached out and clasped her hand; then again, and took both hands. Her breath came quickly. Slowly his arm slipped about her waist, she struggling a little against her own will; then her head fell forward on his breast, and he could feel her whole body tremble. The man looked out through the rifts in the half-naked trees; into the sky, clear and sparkling beyond; on his face an expression of sadness, of joy, of abandon--all blended indescribably. Two soft arms crept gently about his neck, and a mass of fluffy hair caressed his face. "Oh! Guy! Guy!" sobbed the girl, "it's wicked, I know, but I'm so glad--so glad--" THE DOMINANT IMPULSE I Calmar Bye was a writer. That is to say, writing was his vocation and his recreation as well. As yet, unfortunately, he had been unable to find publishers; but for that deficiency no reasonable person could hold him responsible. He had tried them all--and repeatedly. A certain expressman now smiled when he saw the long, slim figure approaching with a package under his arm, which from frequent reappearances had become easily recognizable; but as a person becomes accustomed to a physical deformity, Calmar Bye had ceased to notice banter.