"I can see clearer now," she faltered. "Please, please try to understand. It is because love means so much to some women, that when they think it out with their women-minds they will be very careful of it. They will feel about it as men do about their honour. There must be times when love must stand aside if they want to keep it! I know how queer and crooked all this must sound, but men do not stop loving if 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 you do, 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 more than life ends." Northrup was swept from his hard-wrought position at this. The next wave of emotion might carry him higher, but for the moment he was drifting, drifting. "You do not know life, nor men, nor women," he said huskily and clutched her hands in his. "If life cheats and injures you, you have a right 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 stand anything." "No, it cannot!" Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the hold tighten on her hands; "it cannot stand dishonour. That's what kills it." "Dishonour! What _is_ dishonour?" Northrup asked bitterly. "I'm going to prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man and woman 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 the feet 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 all that she is! You, you _do_ understand about some women, don't you? You will 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 breath sharply--"as Noreen has--a man brought by the haunted wind. It has all been like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where you belong, but I know there are those in that place who are like Noreen." "Yes!" Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell upon his hands and Mary-Clare's. "The wind is changing," said the woman. "The lovely autumn has been kind 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 all this as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you to tell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must picture you there now."