"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!"