The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but he had put those hours to good use.

He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becoming part of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more he was becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest.

“He’s writing a book!” Aunt Polly confided to Peter. “But he doesn’t want anything said about it.”

“He needn’t get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon one thing’s as good as another to tell us. I lay my last dollar, Polly, on this: he’s after Maclin; not with him. I’m thinking the Forest will get a shake-up some day and I’m willing to bide my time. Writing a book! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Why don’t he take to knitting?”

Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might set his conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but he wanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end.

“Until further notice,” he wrote to Manly, “I’m here, and let it go at that. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch with me. As for the rest, I’ve found myself, Manly. I’m getting acquainted, and working like the devil.”

Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked “Confidential, but unimportant.”

Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to “unimportant,” gave him two or three thoughts.

“The writing bug has got him, root and branch. He’s burrowed in his hole and wants the earth to tumble in over him. Talk about letting sleeping dogs lie. Lord! they’re nothing to the animals of Northrup’s type. And some darn 57 fools”––Manly was thinking of Kathryn––“go nosing around and yapping at the creatures’ heels and feel hurt when they turn and snap.”

And Northrup, in his quiet room at the inn, slept at night like a tired boy and dreamed. Now when Northrup began to dream, he was always on the lookout. A few skirmishing, nonsensical dreams marked a state of mind peculiarly associated with his best working mood. They caught and held his attention; they were like signals of the real thing. The Real Thing was a certain dream that, in every detail, was familiar to Northrup and exact in its repetition.

Northrup had not been long at the inn when the significant dream came.

He was back in a big sunny room that he knew as well as his own in his mother’s house. There he stood, like a glad, returned traveller, counting the pieces of furniture; deeply grateful that they were in their places and carefully preserved.

The minutest articles were noted. A vase of flowers; the curtains swaying in the breeze; an elusive odour that often haunted Northrup’s waking hours. The room was now as it always had been. That being assured, Northrup, still in deep sleep, turned to the corridor and expectantly viewed the closed doors. But right here a new note was interjected. Previously, the corridor and doors were things he had gazed upon, feeling as a stranger might; but now they were like the room; quite his own. He had trod the passage; had looked into the empty rooms––they were empty but had held a suggestion of things about to occur.

And then waking suddenly, Northrup understood––he had come to the place of his dream. The Inn was the old setting. In a clairvoyant state, he had been in this place before!

He went to the door of his room and glanced down the passage. All was quiet. The dream made an immediate impression on Northrup. Not only did it arouse his power of creation, strengthen and illumine it; but it evolved a sense of hurry that inspired him without worrying him. It was like the frenzy that seizes an artist when he wants to get a bit of beauty on canvas in a certain light that may change in 58 the next minute. He felt that what he was about to do must be done rapidly and he knew that he would have strength to meet the demand.

He was quickened to every slight thing that came his way: faces, voices, colour. He realized the unrest that his very innocent presence inspired. He wondered about it. What lay seething under the thick crust of King’s Forest that was bubbling to the surface? Was his coming the one thing needed to––to–––

And then he thought of that figure of speech that Manly had used. The black lava flowing; oozing, silently. The whole world, in the big and in the little, was being awakened and aroused––it was that, not his presence, that confused the Forest.

The habits of the house amused and moved him sympathetically. Little Aunt Polly, it appeared, was Judge and Final Court of Justice to the people. Through her he felt he must look for guidance and understanding.

There were always two hours in the afternoons set aside for “hearings.” Perched on the edge of the couch, pillows to right and left, eyeglasses aslant and knitting in hand, Aunt Polly was at the disposal of her neighbours. They could make appointments for private interviews or air their grievances before others, as the spirit urged them. Awful verdicts, clean-cut and simple, were arrived at; advice, grim and far-reaching, was generously given, but woe to the liar or sniveller.

A curious sort of understanding grew up between Northrup and the little woman concerning these conclaves. Polly sensed his interest in all that went on and partly comprehended the real reason for it. She had been strangely impressed by the knowledge that her guest was a writer-man and therefore conscientious about the mental food she set before him. She did not share Peter’s doubts. Some things she felt were not for Northrup and that fast-flying pen of his! But there were other glimpses behind the shields of King’s Forest that did not matter. To these Northrup was welcome.

When the hour came for court to sit, it became Northrup’s habit to seek the front porch for exercise and fresh air. Sometimes the window nearest to Aunt Polly’s sofa would be left open! Sometimes it was closed.

In the latter emergency Northrup sought his exercise and fresh air at a distance.

One day Maclin called. Northrup had not seen him before and was interested. Indirectly he was concerned with the story in hand for he was the mysterious friend of Larry Rivers and the puller of many strings in King’s Forest; strings that were manipulated in ways that aroused suspicion and would be great stuff in a book.

Northrup had seen Maclin from his room window and, when all was safe, quietly took to the back stairs and silently reached the piazza.

The window by Aunt Polly’s couch was open a little higher than usual and the words that greeted Northrup were:

“I call it muggy, Mr. Maclin. That’s what I call it, and if the draught hits the nape of your neck, set the other side of the hearth where there ain’t no draught.”

This, apparently, the caller proceeded to do. Outside Northrup took a chair and refrained from smoking. He wanted his presence to be unsuspected by the caller. He was confident that Aunt Polly knew of his proximity, and he felt sure that Maclin had come to find out more about him.

From the first Northrup was aware of a subtle meaning for the call and he wondered if the woman, clicking her needles, fully comprehended it! The man, Maclin, he soon gathered, was no ordinary personage. He had a kind of superficial polish and culture that were evident in the tones of his voice. After having accounted for his presence by stating that he was looking about a bit and felt like being friendly, Maclin was rounded up by Aunt Polly asking what he was looking about at?

Maclin laughed.

“To tell the truth,” he said, as if taking Aunt Polly into his intimate confidence, “I was looking at the Point. A darned dirty bit of ground with all those squatters on it.”

“We haven’t ever called ’em that, Mr. Maclin. They’re folks with nowhere else to live.” Aunt Polly clicked her needles.

“They’re a dirty, lazy lot. I can’t get ’em to work over at the mines, do what I will.”

“As to that, Mr. Maclin, folks as are mostly drunk on bad whiskey can’t be expected to do good work, can they? Then again, if they are sober, I dare say they are too keen about those inventions of yours that must be so secret. Foreigners, for that purpose, I reckon are easier to manage.”

Maclin shifted his position and put the nape of his neck nearer the window again and Northrup lost any doubt he had about Aunt Polly’s understanding of the situation.

Maclin laughed. It was a trick of his to laugh while he got control of himself.

“You’re a real idealist, Miss Heathcote; most ladies are, some men are, too, until they have to handle the ugly facts of life.”

Peter was meant by “some men,” Northrup suspected.

“Now, speaking of the whiskey, Miss Heathcote, it’s as good over at my place as the men can afford, and better, too. I don’t make anything at the Cosey Bar, I can assure you, but I know that men have to have their drink, and I think it’s better to keep it under control.”

“That’s real human of you, Mr. Maclin, but I wish to goodness you’d keep the men under control after they’ve had their drink. They certainly do make a mess of the peace and happiness of others while they’re indulging in their rights.”

A silence, then Maclin started again. “Truth is, Miss Heathcote, the men ’round here are shucks, and I’m keeping my eye open for the real interest of King’s Forest, not the sentimental interest. Now, that Point––we ought to clean that up, build decent, comfortable cottages there and a wharf; keep the men as have ambition and can pay rents, and get others in, foreigners if you like, who know their business and can set a good example. We’re all running to seed down here, Miss Heathcote, and that’s a fact. I don’t mind telling you, 61 you’re a woman of a thousand and can see what’s what, I am inventing some pretty clever things down at my place and it wouldn’t be safe to let on until they’re perfected, and I do want good workers, not loafers or snoopers, and I do want that Point. It’s nearer to the mines than any other spot on the Lake. I want to build a good road to it; the squatters could be utilized on that––the Pointers, I mean. You and your brother ought to be keen enough to work with me, not against me. Sentiment oughtn’t to go too far where a lot of lazy beggars are concerned.”

The clicking of the needles was the only sound after Maclin’s long speech; he was waiting and breathing quicker. Northrup could hear the deep breathing.

“How do you feel about it, Miss Heathcote?”

“Oh! I don’t let my feelings get the better of me till I know what’s stirring them.”

Northrup stifled a laugh, but Maclin, feeling secure, laughed loudly.

“It’s like asking me, Mr. Maclin, to get stirred up and set going by a pig in a poke.” Aunt Polly’s voice was thin and sharp. “I always see the pig before I get excited, maybe it would be best kept in the poke. Now, Peter and me have a real feeling about the Point––it belonged, as far as we know, to old Doctor Rivers, and all that he had he left to Mary-Clare and we feel sort of responsible to him and her. We would all shield anything that belonged to the old doctor.”

“Is her title clear to that land?” Maclin did not laugh now, Northrup noted that.

“Land! Mr. Maclin, anything as high-sounding as a title tacked on to the Point is real ridiculous! But if the title ain’t clear, I guess brother Peter can make it so. Peter being magistrate comes in handy.”

“Miss Heathcote”––from his tones Northrup judged that Maclin was coming into the open––“Miss Heathcote, the title of the Point isn’t a clear one. I’ve made it my business to find out. Now I’m going to prove my friendliness––I’m not going to push what I know, I’ll take all the risks myself. I’ll give Mrs. Rivers a fair price for that land and everything will 62 be peaceful and happy if you will use your influence with her and the squatters. Will you?”

Aunt Polly slipped from the sofa. Northrup heard her, and imagined the look on her face.

“No, Mr. Maclin, I won’t! When the occasion rises up, I’ll advise Mary-Clare against pigs in pokes and I’ll advise the squatters to squat on!”

Northrup again had difficulty in smothering his laugh, but Maclin’s next move surprised and sobered him.

“Isn’t that place under the stairs, Miss Heathcote, where the bar of the old inn used to be?”

“Yes, sir, yes!” It was an ominous sign when Aunt Polly addressed any one as “sir.” “But that was before our time. Peter and I cleaned the place out as best we could, but there are times now, even, while I sit here alone in the dark, when I seem to see shadows of poor wives and mothers and children stealing in that door a-looking for their men. Don’t that thought ever haunt you, Mr. Maclin, over at the Cosey Bar?”

They were sparring, these two.

“No, it never does. I take things as they are, Miss Heathcote, and let them go at that. Now, if I were to run this place, do you know, I’d do it right and proper and have a what’s what and make money.”

“But you’re not running this inn, sir.”

“Certainly I’m not now, that’s plain enough, or I’d make King’s Forest sit up and take notice. Well, well, Miss Heathcote, just talk over with your brother what I’ve said to you. A man looks at some things different from a woman. Good-bye, ma’am, good-bye. Looks as if it were clearing.”

As Maclin came upon the piazza he stopped short at the sight of Northrup by the open window. He wasn’t often betrayed into showing surprise, but he was now. He had come hoping to get a glimpse of the stranger; had come to get in an early warning of his power, but he wanted to control conditions.

“Good afternoon,” he muttered. “Looks more like clearing, 63 doesn’t it? Stranger in these parts? I’ve heard of you; haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Northrup regarded Maclin coolly as one man does another when there is no apparent reason why he should not.

“The clouds do seem lifting. No, I’m not what you might call a stranger in King’s Forest. Some lake, isn’t it, and good woodland?”

“One of the family, eh? Happy to meet you.” Maclin offered a broad, heavy hand. Northrup took it and smiled cordially without speaking. “Staying on some time?”

“I haven’t decided exactly.”

“Come over to the mines and look around. Nothing there as yet but a dump heap, so to speak, but I’m working out a big proposition and while I have to go slow and keep somewhat under cover for a time––I don’t mind showing what can be shown.”

“Thanks,” Northrup nodded, “I’ll get over if I find time. I’m here on business myself and am rather busy in a slow, lazy fashion, but I’ll not forget.”

Maclin put on his hat and turned away. Northrup got an unpleasant impression of the man’s head in the back. It was flat and his neck met it in flabby folds that wrinkled under certain emotions as other men’s foreheads did. The expressive neck was wrinkling now.

Giving Aunt Polly time to recover her poise, Northrup went inside. He found the small woman hovering about the room, patting the furniture, dusting it here and there with her apron. Her glasses were quite misty.

“I hope you kept your ears open,” she exclaimed when she turned to Northrup.

“I did, Aunt Polly! Come, sit down and let’s talk it over.”

Polly obeyed at once and let restraint drop.

“That man has a real terrible effect on me, son. He’s like acid sorter creeping in. I don’t suppose he could do what he hints––but his hints just naturally make me anxious.”

“He cannot get a hold on you, Aunt Polly. Surely your brother is more than a match for any one like Maclin.”

“When it comes to that, son, Peter can fight his own in the open, but he ain’t any hand to sense danger in the dark till it’s too late. Peter never can believe a fellow man is doing him a bad turn till he’s bowled over. But then,” she ran on plaintively, “it ain’t just us––Peter, Mary-Clare, and me––it’s them folks down on the Point,” the old face quivered touchingly. “The old doctor used to say it was God’s acre for the living; the old doctor would have his joke. The Point always was a mean piece of land for any regular use, but it reaches out a bit into the lake and the fishing’s good round it, and you can fasten boats to it and it’s a real safe place for old folks and children. There’s always drifting creatures wherever you may be, son, and King’s Forest has ’em, but the old doctor held as they ought to have some place to move in, if we let ’em be born. So he set aside the Point and never took anything from them, though he gave them a lot, what with doctoring and funerals. Dear, dear! there are real comical happenings at the Point. I often sit and shake over them. Real human nature down there! Mary-Clare goes down and reads the Bible to the Pointers––they just about adore her, and she wouldn’t sell them out, not for bread and butter for her very own! It’s the title as worries Peter and me, son. We’ve always known it was tricky, but, lands! we never thought it would come to arguing about and I put it to you: What does this Maclin man want of that Point?”

Northrup looked interested.

“I’m going to find out,” he said presently, feeling strangely as if he had become part and parcel of the matter. “I’m going to find out and you mustn’t worry any more, Aunt Polly. We’ll try Maclin at his own game and go him one better. He cannot account for me, I’m making him uneasy. Now you help the thing along by just squatting––that’s a good phrase of yours; one can accomplish much by just squatting on his holdings.”

And now that tricky imagination of Northrup’s pictured Mary-Clare in the thick of it and carrying out the old doctor’s whims; taking to the desolate bit of ground the sweetness 65 and brightness of her loveliness. It was disconcerting, but at the same time gratifying, that pervasive quality of Mary-Clare. She was already as deep in the plot of Northrup’s work as she was in the Forest. Whenever Northrup saw her, and he did often, on the road he was amused at the feeling he had of knowing her. So might it be had he come across an old acquaintance who did not recognize him. It was a feeling wrought with excitement and danger; he might some day startle her by taking advantage of it.

The weather, after the storm, took an unexpected turn. Instead of bringing frost it brought days almost as warm as late summer. The colour glistened; the leaves clung to the branches, but the nights were cool. The lake lay like an opal, flashing gorgeously in the sun, or like a moonstone, when the sun sank behind the hills.

One afternoon Northrup went to the deserted chapel on the island. He walked around the building which was covered with a crimson vine; he looked up at the belfry, in which hung the bell so responsive to unseen hands.

The place was like a haunted spot, but beautiful beyond words. Northrup tried the door––it swung in; it shared the peculiarities of all the other doors of the Forest.

Inside, the light came ruddily through the scarlet creeper that covered the windows––no stained glass could have been more exquisite; the benches were dusty and uncushioned, the pulpit dark and reproving in its aloofness. By the most westerly window there was a space where, apparently, an organ had once stood. There was a table near by and a chair.

An idea gripped Northrup––he would come to the chapel and write. There was a stove by the door. He could utilize that should necessity arise.

He sat down and considered. Presently he was lost in the working out of his growing plot; already he was well on his way. Over night, as it were, his theme had become clear and connected. He meant to become part of his book, rather than its creator; he would be governed by events; not seek to govern them. In short, as far as in him lay, he would live, the next few weeks, as a man does who has lost 66 his identity and moves among his fellows, intent on the present, but with the background a blank.

Northrup felt that if, at the end of his self-ordained exile, he had regained his health, outlined a book, and ascertained what was the cause of the suspicious unrest of the Forest, he would have accomplished more than he had set out to do and would be in a position where he could decide definitely upon his course regarding the war, about which few, apparently, felt as he did.

It was his spiritual and physical struggle, as he contemplated the matter now, that was his undoing. He was trying to drive the horror from his consciousness, as a thing apart from him and his. He was overwhelmed by the possessiveness of the awful thing. It caught and held him, threatened everything he held sacred. Well, this should be the test! He would abide by the outcome of his stay in the Forest.

At that moment Maclin, oddly enough, came into Northrup’s thoughts and the fat, ingratiating man became part, not of the plot of the book, but the grim struggle across the sea.

“Good God!” Northrup spoke aloud; “could it be possible?” All along he had been able to ignore the suggestions of disloyalty and treachery that many of his friends held, but a glaring possibility of Maclin playing a hideous rÔle alarmed him; made every fibre of his being stiffen. The man was undoubtedly German, though his name was not. What was he up to?

There are moments in life when human beings are aware of being but puppets in a big game; they may tug at the strings that control them; may perform within certain limits, but must resign themselves to the fact that the strings are unbreakable. Such a feeling possessed Northrup now. He laughed. He was not inclined to struggle––he bowed to the inevitable with a keen desire for coÖperation.

At this point something caused Northrup to look around.

Upon a bench near by, hunched like a gargoyle, with her vague face nested in the palms of her thin hands, sat the girl he had noted in the yellow house the day of his arrival. One glance at her and she seemed to bring the scene back. 67 The sunny room, the children, the dogs, and the girl on the table, who had soon become so familiar to him.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “And who are you?”

“Jan-an.”

Another name become a person! Northrup smiled. They were all materializing; the names, the stories.

“I see. Well?”

There was a pause. The girl was studying him slowly, almost painfully, but she did not speak.

“Where do you live, Jan-an?”

This made talk and filled an uncomfortable pause.

“One place and another. I was left.”

“Left?”

“Yep. Left on the town. Folks take me in turn-about. I just jog along. I’m staying over to the Point now. Next I’m going to Aunt Polly. I chooses, I do. I likes to jog along.”

The girl was inclined to be friendly and she was amusing.

“Did you hear the bell ring the night you came––the ha’nt bell?” she asked.

“I certainly did.”

“’Twas a warning, and then here you are! Generally warnings mean bad things, but Aunt Polly says you’re right enough and generally they ain’t when they’re young.”

“Who are not, Jan-an?”

“Men. When they get old, like Uncle Peter, they meller or–––”

“Or what?”

“Naturally drop off.”

Northrup laughed. The sound disturbed the girl and she scowled.

“It’s terrible to have folks think you’re a fool to be laughed at,” she muttered. “I can’t get things over.”

“What do you want to get over, Jan-an?”

Northrup was becoming interested. If straws show the wind’s quarter, then a bit of driftwood may be depended upon to indicate the course of a stream. Northrup was again both amused and surprised to find how his very ordinary presence 68 in King’s Forest was, apparently, affecting the natives. Jan-an took on new proportions as she was regarded in the light of a straw or a bit of driftwood.

“Yer feelin’s,” the girl answered simply. “When you don’ understand like most do, yer feelin’s count, they do!”

“They certainly do, Jan-an.”

The girl considered this and struggled, evidently, to adjust her companion to suit her needs, but at last she shook her head.

“I ain’t going to take no chances with yer!” she muttered at length. “’Tain’t natural. Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter ain’t risking so much as––her–––”

“You mean–––” Northrup felt guilty. He knew whom the girl meant––he felt as if he were taking advantage; eavesdropping or reading someone else’s letter.

Jan-an sunk her face deeper into the cup of her hands––this pressed her features up and made her look laughably ugly. She was not taking much heed of the man near by; she was seeking to collect all the shreds of evidence she had gathered from listening, in her rapt, tense way, and making some definite case for, or against, the stranger who, Aunt Polly had assured her, was “good and proper.”

“Now, everything was running on same as common,” Jan-an muttered––“same as common. Then that old ha’nt bell took to ringing, like all possessed. I just naturally thought ’bout you dropping out of a clear sky and asking us the way to the inn when it was plain as the nose on yer face how yer should go. What do you suppose folks paint sign-boards for, eh?” The twisted ideas sprang into a question.

“That’s one on me, Jan-an!” Northrup laughed. “I was afraid I’d be found out.”

“Can’t yer read?” Jan-an could not utterly distrust this person who was puzzling her.

“Yes, I can read and write, Jan-an.”

“Then what in tarnation made yer plump in that way?”

“The Lord knows, Jan-an!” Almost the tone was reverent.

“Then he came ructioning in––Larry, I mean. An’ everything is different from what it was. Just like a bubbling pot”––poor Jan-an grew picturesque––“with the top wobbling. I wish”––she turned pleading eyes on Northrup––“I wish ter God you’d clear out.”

For a moment Northrup felt again the weakening desire to follow this advice, but, as he thought on, his chin set in a fixed way that meant that he was not going to move on, but stay where he was. He meant, also, to get what he could from this strange creature who had sought him out. He convinced himself that it was legitimate, and since he meant to get at the bottom of what was going on, he must use what came to hand.

“So Larry has come back?” he asked indifferently. Then: “I’ve caught sight of him from a distance. Good-looking fellow, this Larry of yours, Jan-an.”

“He ain’t mine. If he was–––” Jan-an looked mutinous and Northrup laughed.

“See here, you!” The girl was irritated by the laugh. “Larry, he thinks that Mary-Clare has set eyes on yer before yer came that day. Larry is making ructions, and folks are talking.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Northrup found his heart beating a bit quicker.

“I know it is, but Maclin can make Larry think anything. Honest to God, yer ain’t siding ’long of Maclin?”

“Honest to God, Jan-an, I’m not.”

“Then why did yer stumble in on us that way?”

“I don’t know, Jan-an. That’s honest to God, too!”

“Then if nothing is mattering ter yer, and one place is as good as another, why don’t you go along?”

Northrup gave this due consideration. He was preparing to answer something in his own mind. The dull-faced girl was having a peculiar effect upon him. He was getting excited.

“Well, Jan-an,” he said at last, “it’s this way. Things are mattering. Mattering like thunder! And one place isn’t as good as another; this place is the only place on the map just now––catch on?”

Jan-an was making strenuous efforts to “catch on”; her face appeared like a rubber mask that unseen fingers were pinching into comical expressions.

Northrup began to wonder just how mentally lacking the girl was.

“But tuck this away in your noddle, Jan-an. Your Uncle Peter and Aunt Polly have the right understanding. They trust me, and you will some day. I’m going to stay right here––pass that along to anyone who asks you, Jan-an. I’m going to stay here and see this thing out!”

“What thing?”

The elusive something that was puzzling the girl, the sense of something wrong that her blinded but sensitive nature suffered from, loomed close. This man might make it plain.

“What thing?” she asked huskily. Then Northrup laughed that disturbing laugh of his.

“I don’t know, Jan-an. ’Pon my soul, girl, I’d give a good deal to know, but I don’t. I’m like you, just feeling things.”

Jan-an rose stiffly as if she were strung on wires. Her joints cracked as they fell into place, but once the long body stood upright, Northrup noticed that it was not without a certain rough grace and it looked strong and capable of great endurance.

“I’ve been following you since the first day when you landed,” Jan-an spoke calmly. There was no warning or distrust in the voice, merely a statement of fact. “And I’m going to keep on following and watching, so long as you stay.”

“Good! I’ll never be really lonely then, and you’ll sooner get to trusting me.”

“I ain’t much for trusting till I knows.”

The girl turned and strode away. “Well, if you ever need me, try me out, Jan-an. Good-bye.”

Northrup felt ill at ease after Jan-an passed from sight.

“Of all the messes!” he thought. “It makes me superstitious. What’s the matter with this Forest?”

And then Maclin again came into focus. Around Maclin, apparently, the public thought revolved.

“They don’t trust Maclin.” Northrup began to reduce things to normal. “He’s got them guessing with his damned inventions and secrecy. Then every outsider means a possible accomplice of Maclin. They hate the foreigners he brings here. They have got their eyes on me. All right, Maclin, my ready-to-wear villain, here’s to you! And before we’re through with each other some interesting things will occur, or I’ll miss my guess.”

In much the same mood of excitement, Northrup had entered upon the adventure of writing his former book, with this difference: He had gone to the East Side of his home city with all his anchors cast in a familiar harbour; he was on the open sea now. There had been his mother and Kathryn before; the reliefs of home comforts, “fumigations” Kathryn termed them; now he was part of his environment, determined to cast no backward look until his appointed task was finished in failure or––success.

The chapel and the day had soothed and comforted him: he was ready to abandon the hold on every string. This space of time, of unfettered thought and work, was like existence in a preparation camp. This became a fixed idea presently––he was being prepared for service; fitted for his place in a new Scheme. That was the only safe way to regard life, at the best. Here, there, it mattered not, but the preparation counted.