Something rather big had happened to him--he must not permit it to become small. He recalled Mary-Clare's words and face and a great tenderness 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's name, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough." No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing and go home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situation was bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding to leave 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 greater beauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried to work: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but he knew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in the story--the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt as if he were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had time finally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meeting Mary-Clare. "I'll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks," he compromised with his lesser--or better--self. "Then I'll beat it!" Looking to this he asked Uncle Peter what the chances were of a cold spell. "There was a time"--Peter sniffed the air. He was husking golden corn by the kitchen fire--"when I could calculate about the weather, but since the weather man has got to meddling he's messed things considerable. He's put in the Middle States, and what-not, until it's like doing subtraction and division--and by that time the change of weather is on you." Northrup laughed. "Well," he said, getting up and stretching, "I think I'll take a turn before I go to bed. Bank the fire, Uncle Peter; I may prowl late." Heathcote asked no questions, but those prowls of Northrup's were putting his simple faith to severe tests. Peter was above gossip, but when it swirled too near him he was bound to watch out. "All right, son," he muttered, and ran his hand through his bristling hair. The night was a dark one. A soft darkness it was, that held no wind and 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 the sensation pleased and comforted him. He was not aware of thought, but thought was taking him into control, as the night was. There would be moments of seeming blank and then a conclusion! A vivid, final conclusion. Of course Mary-Clare occupied these moments of seeming mental inaction. Northrup now wanted to set her free from--what? "That young beast of a husband!" So much for that conclusion. If the end had come between him and Mary-Clare, Northrup wondered if he could free her from Rivers. "What for?" This brought a hurtling mass of conclusions.