Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was a cold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-like quality in it, too. It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understanding of life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking to smooth 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, tempted moment and linking the past with all that the future must hold for them both. There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow--to accept the commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave that hides a beautiful thing. "You have never been to the city?" There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolish words. "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 smiting rebukes to her heedlessness. Cheap theatres, noisy restaurants, gaudy lights. "My dear doctor and I always planned going together," she said brokenly. "I believe there are many cities in the city. One has to find his city for himself." "Yes, that's exactly what one does." Northrup closed his hand closer over 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 your people." The bravery was almost heart-breaking, it caused Northrup's lips to set 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 she hurried on: "And now, when I try to think of you in your city, at your work, just how shall I think of you? Make it like a picture." Northrup struggled with himself. The girl beside him, in pushing him from her life, was so unutterably sweet and brave. "My dear, my dear!" he whispered, and remorse, pity, yearning rang in the words. "Make it like a picture!" Relentlessly the words were repeated. They demanded 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. The steam and smoke roll up and seem to make a gauzy path upon which all that 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. And sometimes, maybe when the sun is going down, as it is now, you will see me on that trail that is just yours, in your city coming to--to wish you well!"