But he could not go to sleep. He felt hot and cold; mean and indignant--but above all else, tremendously excited. He lay still a little longer and then opened his door in time to hear that "good-night, good-night"; and presently Aunt Polly's raid on the unoffending attic door at the other end of the corridor and her pattering feet on their way, at last, to her bedchamber. "She's forgot to bank the fire." Northrup could see the glow from his post and remembered Uncle Peter's carefulness. "I'll run down and make things safe and lock the door." Northrup still held his respect for doors. In heavy gown and soft slippers he noiselessly descended. The living-room at the far end was dark; the fire glowed at the other, dangerously, and one threatening log had rolled menacingly to the fore. Bent upon quick action Northrup silently crossed the floor, grasped the long poker and pushed the blazing wood back past the safety line and held it there. His face burned, but there was a hypnotic lure in that bed of red coals. All that he had just heard--a disjointed and rather dramatic revealment--was having a peculiar effect upon him. He had become aware of some important facts that accounted for things, such as Rivers's appearance on the Point. He had attributed that advent to Maclin's secret business; but it was, evidently, quite different. What had occurred in the yellow house before the final break? Northrup's imagination came to the fore fully equipped. Northrup was a man of the herd--at least he had been, until lately. He knew the tracks of the herd and its laws and codes. "The brute!" he muttered under his breath; "and that kind of a girl, too. Nothing is too fine for some devils to appropriate and--smirch. Poor little girl!" And then Northrup recalled Mary-Clare as he had seen her that day as she emerged from the woods to meet him and her child. The glory of Peneluna's story was in her soul, the autumn sunlight on her face. That lovely, smiling, untouched face of hers! Again and again that memory of her held his fancy. "The cursed brute--hasn't _got_ her, thank God. She's out of the trap." And, all unconsciously, while this moral indignation had its way, Northrup was drawing nearer to Mary-Clare; understanding her, appropriating her! God knew he meant no wrong. After all she had suffered he wasn't going to mess her life more--but he'd somehow make up to her what she'd a perfect right to. All men were not low and bestial. He had a duty--he would be above the touch of idle chatter; he would take a hand in the game! And just then Northrup, controlled by the force of attraction, turned his head and looked at the face of Mary-Clare upon the couch near him!