This was not safe reasoning, and he set it aside impatiently. He waited a few days, deliberating, hoping his mother would return from a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When at the end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and set forth, on foot again, for the Forest. He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body served him well and his desire spurred him on. When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struck him. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near the yellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had not heard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have that lost, weird note that used to mark it--there was definiteness about it that suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting. "Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went to the door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to do that. How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, and for a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes were filled with the late afternoon glow. It was autumn and the days were growing short. Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chance visitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays long." At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across the space separating him from Larry Rivers! Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow! It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer light, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited. Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials. "So you've been over there, too?" was what he said. The angry gleam in his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common language of comrades-in-arms. "Yes, I've been there," Larry answered. "When I came back, I had nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! How I've wanted to tell you." "Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of us. We've both drifted back." Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full significance of what life had done to Rivers! "Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in--before any one comes. They won't let me talk. It's like being in prison. It's hell. I've thought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I dared not even ask for you!" Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew ashen. "I'm listening, Rivers. Go on." Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped a listener. The conventions were swept aside.