"God knows, Mary-Clare. The old doctor gave this place to Philander, and he gave me mine, next door. I think, till I get my leadings, I'll hold to this and see what the Lord wants me to do with my old shack. I allas find someone waiting to share. Maybe Jan-an will grow to fit in there in time. When she gets old and helpless she'll need some place to crawl to and call her own. I don't know, but I'm a powerful waiter and I'll keep an eye and ear open." On the walk home Mary-Clare grew deeply thoughtful. The recent scene took on enormous significance. Detached from the pitiful setting, disassociated from the two forlorn creatures who were the actors in the tragic story, there rose, like a bright and living flame, a something that the girl's imagination caught and held. That something was quite apart from laws and codes; it came; could not be commanded. It was something that marriage could not give, nor death kill. Something that could exist on the Point. Something that couldn't be got out of one's heart, once it had entered in. What was it? It wasn't duty or just living on. It was something too big to name. Why was the wonder of it crowding all else out--after the long years? Mary-Clare left the Point behind her. She entered the sweet autumn-tinted woods beyond which lay her home. She hoped--oh! yearningly she hoped--that Larry would not be there, not just yet. She would go for Noreen; she would stay awhile with Aunt Polly and tell her about what had just occurred--the service, but not the secret thing. Suddenly she stood still and her face shone in the dim woods. Just ahead and around a curve, she heard Noreen's voice. But was it Noreen's? Often, in her wondering moments, Mary-Clare had pictured her little girl as she longed for her to be--a glad, unthinking creature, such as Mary-Clare herself had once been, a singing, laughing child. And now, just out of sight, Noreen was singing. There was a rich gurgle in the flute-like voice; it came floating along. "Oh! tell it again, please! I want to learn it for Motherly. It is awfully funny--and make the funny face that goes with it--the crinkly-up face." "All right. Here goes! "Up the airy mountain, Down the rustly glen-- that's the way, Noreen, scuffle your feet in the leaves-- "We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather-- Here, you, Noreen, play fair; scuffle and keep step, you little beggar!" "But I may step on the wee men, the good men," again the rich chuckle. "No, you won't if you scuffle and then step high; they'll slip between your feet." Then came the tramp, tramp of the oncoming pair. Big feet, little feet. Long strides and short hops. So they came in view around the turn of the rough road--Northrup with Noreen holding his hand and trying to keep step to the swinging words of the old song.