"It frightened us all terribly," Mary-Clare's voice would always hold fear when she spoke of Maclin. "I do not know what would have happened to the Forest if--a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were at the worst." There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been half known. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clare spoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bit dazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad, illuminating truth! "You have heard of Mrs. Dana?" Mary-Clare asked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her. "Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at the psychological moment." "She set us to work!" Mary-Clare went on. "She is the most wonderful woman I ever knew." "She must be!" Slower and slower the two walked down the trail. They were clutching the few golden moments. It was quite dark when they came to the yellow house. The door was wide open, the heart of the little home lay bare to the passer-by. Jan-an was on her knees by the hearth, puffing to life the kindlings she had lighted. Larry's chair was drawn close and upon its arm Noreen was perched. "They always leave it so for me," Mary-Clare whispered. "You see how everything is?" "Yes, I see, Mary-Clare." Northrup reached forth and drew the small clasped hands into his own!--then he bent and kissed them. "I see, I see." "And you will come in? Larry loves company." "Not to-night, Mary-Clare, but to-morrow. I am going to stay at the inn for a few days." "Oh! I am glad!" Almost the brave voice broke. "There is something else I see, my dear," Northrup ignored the poor disguise for a moment. "I see the meaning of _you_ as I never saw it before. You have never broken faith! That is above all else--it is all else." "I have tried." Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught the note of joy in her grieving voice. "You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you." "Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that." "Good-night." Northrup released the cold hands--they clung for a moment in a weak, human way. "There is to-morrow, you know," he whispered. Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange feeling of having left something back there in the yellow house. He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew; the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and on ahead the lights of the inn twinkled. And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemed to be following, following in the darkness. Northrup's lips closed grimly. He squared his shoulders to his task.