No wonder Maclin, and the outraged Larry, saw distinctly the ridge on which the wreck was to occur. But no one was taking into account that idealism in Mary-Clare that the old doctor had devoutly hoped would save her, not destroy her. Northrup began to comprehend it during the more intimate conversations that took place when the children, playing apart, left him and Mary-Clare alone. The wonder grew upon him and humbled him. It was something he had never encountered before. A philosophy and code built entirely upon knowledge gained from books and interpreted by a singular strength and purity of mind. It piqued Northrup; he began to test it, never estimating danger for himself. "Books are like people," Mary-Clare said one day--she was watching Northrup build a campfire and the last bit of sunlight fell full upon her--"the words are the costumes." She had marked the surprised look in Northrup's eyes as she quoted rather a bald sentiment from an old book. "Yes, of course, and that's sound reasoning." For a moment Northrup felt as though a clear north wind were blowing away the dust in an overlooked corner of his mind. "But it's rather staggering to find that you read French," he added, for the quotation had been literally translated. "You do, don't you?" "I do, a little. I'm taking it up again for Noreen." Noreen's name was continually being brought into focus. It had the effect of pushing Northrup, metaphorically, into a safe zone. He resented this. "She is afraid!" he thought. "Rivers has left his mark upon her mind, damn him!" This sentiment should have given warning, but it did not. "I study nights"--Mary-Clare was speaking quite as if fear had no part in her thought--"French, mathematics--all the hard things that went in and--stuck." "Hard things do stick, don't they?" Northrup hated the pushed-aside feeling. "Terribly. But my doctor was adamant about hard things. He used to say that I'd learn to love chipping off the rough corners." Here Mary-Clare laughed, and the sound set Northrup's nerves a-tingle as the clear notes of music did. "I can see myself now, Mr. Northrup, sitting behind my doctor on his horse, my book flattened out against his back. I'd ask questions; he'd fling the answers to me. Once I drew the map of Italy on his blessed old shoulders with crayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up the seam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then." Northrup laughed aloud. He edged away from his isolation and said: "Your doctor was a remarkable man. His memory lives in the Forest; it's about the most vital thing here. It and all that preserves it." His eyes rested upon Mary-Clare.