"Yes. He was wonderful. Lately he seems more alive than ever. He had such simple rules of life--but they work. He told me so often that when a trouble or anything like that came, there were but two ways to meet it. If it was going to kill you, die at your best. If it wasn't, get over it at once; never waste time--live as soon as possible." Was there a note of warning in the words? "And you're doing it?" An understanding look passed between them. "Yes, Mr. Northrup, for Noreen." Back went Northrup to his place with a dull thud! Then Mary-Clare hurried to a safer subject. "I wish you would tell me about your book, Mr. Northrup. I have the strangest feeling about it. It seems like a new kind of flower growing in the Forest. I love flowers." Northrup looked down at his companion. Her bared head, her musing, radiant face excited and moved him. He had forgotten his book. "You're rather like a strange growth yourself," he said daringly. Mary-Clare smiled gaily. "You'll have to blame my old doctor for that," she said. "Or bless him," Northrup broke in. "Yes, that's better, if it is true." "It's tremendously true." "A book"--again that elusive push--"must be a great responsibility. Once you put your thoughts and words down and send them out--there you are!" "Yes. Good Lord! There you are." "I knew that you would feel that way about it and that is why I would like to hear you talk of it. It's a story, isn't it?" "Yes, a story." "You can reach further with a story." "I suppose so. You do not have to knuckle down to rules. You can let your vision have a say, and your feelings." Northrup, seeing that his book must play a part, accepted that fact. "I suppose"--Mary-Clare was looking wistfully up at Northrup--"all the people in your books work out what you believe is truth. I can always _feel_ truth in a book--or the lack of it." In the near distance Noreen and Jan-an were gathering wood. They were singing and shouting lustily. "May I sit on your log?" Northrup spoke hurriedly. "Of course," and Mary-Clare moved a little. "The sun's gone," she went on. "It's quite dark in the valley." "It's still light here--and there's the fire." Northrup was watching the face beside him. "Yes, the fire, and presently the moon rising, just over there." Restraint lay between the two on the mossy log. They both resented it. "You know, you must know, that I'd rather have you share my book than any one else." Northrup spoke almost roughly. He had meant to say something quite different, but anything would do so long as he controlled the situation. "I wonder why?" Mary-Clare kept her face turned away. "Well, you are so phenomenally keen. You know such a lot." "I used to snap up everything like a hungry puppy, Uncle Peter often said. I suppose I do now, Mr. Northrup, but I only know life as a blind person does: I feel."