Northrup resolved to see Mary-Clare once more and then go home. He would make sure that the fire he himself was scorched by had not touched her. After that he would turn his back upon the golden selah in his life and return to his niche in the wall. This brought his mother and Kathryn into the line of vision. How utterly he had betrayed their confidence! His whole life, from now on, should be devoted to their service. Doubtless to other men, like himself, there were women who were never forgotten, but that must not blot out reality. And then Northrup considered the task of unearthing Maclin's secrets, and ridding the Forest of that subtle fear and distrust that the man created. That was, however, too big an undertaking now. He must get Twombley to watch and report. Northrup had a great respect for Twombley's powers of observation. And so the time on the Point had been put to some purpose, and it had occupied Northrup. Noreen and Jan-an had helped, too. It was rather tragic the way Northrup had grown to feel about Noreen. The child had developed his latent love for children--they had never figured in his life before. So much had been left out, now that he came to think of it! And Jan-an. Poor groping creature! To have gained her affection and trust meant a great deal. Then the Heathcotes! Polly and Peter! During those five distraught days they developed halos in Northrup's imagination. They had taken him in, a stranger. They had fathered and mothered him; staunchly and silently stood by him. What if they knew? They must never know! He would make sure of that. In this frame of mind, chastened and determined, Northrup on the fifth day took his place behind the laurel clump back of Mary-Clare's cabin, and to his relief saw her coming out of the door. His manuscript was not in her hands, but her face had an uplifted and luminous look that set his heart to a quicker pulsing. After a decent length of time, Northrup, whistling carelessly, scruffing the dead leaves noiselessly, followed on and overtook Mary-Clare near the log upon which they had sat at their last meeting. The quaint poise and dignity of the girl was the first impression Northrup always got. He had never quite grown accustomed to it; it was like a challenge--his impulse was to test it. It threatened his exalted state now. "It's quite mysterious, isn't it?" Mary-Clare sat down on her end of the log and looked up, her eyes twinkling. "What is mysterious?" Northrup took his place. The log was not a long one. "The way we manage to meet." She was setting him at a safe distance in that old way of hers that somehow made her seem so young. It irritated Northrup now as it never had before. He had prepared himself for an ordeal, was keyed to a high note, and the quiet, smiling girl near him made it all seem a farce. This was dangerous. Northrup relaxed. "It's been nearly a week since I saw you," he said, and let his eyes rest upon Mary-Clare's face.