And Northrup saw Mary-Clare, saw her with a slanting sunbeam on her radiant face. The romance of Hunter's Point was in her soul, and the wonder of her child's happiness. She stood and smiled that strange, unforgettable smile of hers; the smile that had its birth in unshed tears. Northrup hurried toward her, taking in, as he came, her loveliness that could not be detracted from by her mud-stained and rough clothing. The feeling of knowing her was in his mind; she seemed vividly familiar. "Your little daughter got homesick, or mother-sick, Mrs. Rivers"--Northrup took off his hat--"Aunt Polly gave me the privilege of bringing her to you. We became friends from the moment we met. We've been making great strides all day." "Thank you, Mr.----" "Northrup." "Thank you, Mr. Northrup. You have made Noreen very happy--and she does not make friends easily." "But, Motherly," Noreen was flushed and eager. "_He_ isn't a friend. Jan-an told me all about him. He's something the wild-wind brought. You are, aren't you, Mr. Sir?" Northrup laughed. "Well, something like that," he admitted. "May I walk along with you, Mrs. Rivers? Unless I go around the lake, I must turn back." And so they walked on, Noreen darting here and there quite unlike her staid little self, and they talked of many things--neither could have told after just what they talked about. The conversation was like a stream carrying them along to a definite point ordained for them to reach, somewhere, some time, on beyond. "How on earth could she manage to be what she is?" pondered Northrup. "She's read and thought to some purpose." "What does he mean by being here?" pondered Mary-Clare. "This isn't just a happening." But they chatted pleasantly while they pondered. When they came near to the yellow house, Noreen, who was ahead, came running back. All the joyousness had fled from her face. She looked heavy-eyed and dull. "She's tired," murmured Mary-Clare, but she knew that that was not what ailed Noreen. And then she looked toward her house. Larry stood in the doorway, smoking and smiling. "Will you come and meet my husband?" she asked of Northrup. "I'll put off the pleasure, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Rivers. I have learned that one cannot tamper with Aunt Polly's raised biscuits. It's late, but may I call to-morrow?" Northrup stood bareheaded while he spoke. Mary-Clare nodded. She was mutely thankful when he strode on ahead and toward the lake. It was while they were eating their evening meal that Larry remarked casually: "So that's the Northrup fellow, is it?" Mary-Clare flushed and had a sensation of being lassoed by an invisible hand. "Yes. He is staying at the inn--I sent Noreen there this morning while I went over to the Point; he was bringing her home." "He seemed to know that you weren't home." "Children come in handy," Larry smiled pleasantly. "More potato, Mary-Clare?"