For a brief moment, Quincy veered upon the truth. Had he but dared to alight there, to go no farther, to drive his standard and hold firm! Quincy began to see how weak and straddling it had been to go to him, to remain silent toward her; began to see what a fund of cowardly uncertainty his virtue hid, that prompted him to feel a guilt toward him, instead of a right for her; began to see that in his action lay a hedging, a shallowness of feeling, a failure to build up his own morale and his own measure, as a force which was life-saving should! He had maimed everything. He had not stood by him, not stood by her. From each, he had been willing to receive; and his response in each case had been a blow in the back, once that back was turned. Oh! there was health in this hatred, this detestation of himself which gripped him now like a storm! It was torture. But from such torture he could arise and still create. All that he needed was not to escape the storm; to invite, rather, the heart of it; to remain drowned in it, till it had swept him clean. But though he had veered so nigh, he was too unstable not to fly on and past. The vision of the truth died out behind him in the spray-dashed horizon. Quincy began to defend himself, to rationalize, to seek a way of self-forgiveness. And of course, that which he sought, he found. He did not know what Julia had meant. He had been mad with Julia; and his madness was over, as madness should be. Perhaps, she also had been mad and her madness, also, had disappeared. His scruple, driving him to Professor Deering, was a clean and brave one. He had a conscience. What could a conscience be, but good and strong? Who ever had dared suggest that conscience was a coward and a traitor? Professor Deering simply had not understood. He would not lose him, he would make him understand. And the great man, regretting his injustice, would cry him welcome and crave his pardon. As to Julia--he felt with strong effort, he might still be able to look upon her as a friend. His infatuation was gone. But so might go, also, his new repulsion. Many times, Quincy had alighted in this false haven. He should have known its meretriciousness. He should have known that it would as surely fail him as it had failed before. So now, a moment after, the smooth way receded, the storm swept back and he was no better off than he had been. But far beyond the passed horizon, the shore of truth had died away. Ahead might be illimitable seas, lashed with his fury. But the truth was gone. And so, unsuccored even by this last resort, Quincy abandoned his fir grove and went back, unheeding, through the magnificence of autumn. * * * * *