In King’s Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened––but, as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like a cancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper––to the death.

The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliterated links; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even they ached with the pain of blows they had endured.

The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbed and pulsated and to them, more often than of old––or so it seemed––the bell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages––messages rung out by unseen hands.

“There’s mostly lost winds this winter,” poor Jan-an whimpered to Peneluna. “I have feelin’s most all the time. I’m scared early and late, and that cold my bones jingle.”

Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl, wrapped her in warmer clothes, and sent her scurrying across the frozen lake to the yellow house.

“And don’t come back till spring!” she commanded.

“Spring?” Jan-an paused as she was strapping on an old pair of skates that once belonged to Philander Sniff. “Spring? Gawd!”

It was a terrific winter. The still, intense kind that grips every snowstorm as a miser does his money, hiding it in secret places of the hills where the divine warmth of the sun cannot find it.

The wind, early in November, set in the north! Occasionally the “ha’nt wind” troubled it; wailed a bit and caught the belfry bell, and then gave up and sobbed itself away.

At the inn a vague something––was it old age or lost faith?––was 251 trying to conquer Peter’s philosophy and Aunt Polly’s spiritual vision. The Thing, whatever it was, was having a tussle, but it made its marks. Peter sat oftener by the fire with Ginger edging close to the leg that the gander had once damaged and which, now, acted as an indicator for Peter’s moods. When he did not want to talk his “leg ached.” When his heart sank in despair his “leg ached.” But Polly, a little thinner, a little more dim as to far-off visions, caught every mood of Peter’s and sent it back upon him like a boomerang. She met his silent hours with such a flare of talk that Peter responded in self-defence. His black hours she clutched desperately and held them up for him to look at after she had charged them with memories of goodness and love.

As for herself? Well, Aunt Polly nourished her own brave spirit by service and an insistent, demanding cry of justice.

“’Tain’t fair and square to hold anything against the Almighty,” she proclaimed, “till you’ve given Him a chance to show what He did things for.”

Polly waxed eloquent and courageous; she kept her own faith by voicing it to others; it grew upon reiteration.

Peter was in one of his worst combinations––silence and low spirits––when Polly entered the kitchen one early afternoon. A glance at the huddling form by the red-hot range had the effect of turning Polly into steel. She looked at Ginger, who reflected his master’s moods pathetically, and her steel became iron.

“I suppose if I ask you, Peter, how you’re feeling,” she said slowly, calmly, “you’ll fling your leg in my face! It’s monstrous to see how an able-bodied man can use any old lie to save his countenance.”

“My leg–––” Peter began, but Polly stopped him. She had hung her coat and hood in the closet and came to the fire, patting her thin hair in order and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat.

“Don’t leg me, Peter Heathcote, I’m terrible ashamed of you. Terrible. So long as you have legs, brother––and you have!––I say use ’em. Half the troubles in this world are think troubles, laid to legs and backs and what not.”

“Where you been?” Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him. “You look tuckered.”

“I wasn’t tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I’ve been considerable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare’s. She is mighty heartening. She’s gathered all the children she can get and she’s teaching them. She’s mimicking the old doctor’s plan––making him live again, she calls it––and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forest who doesn’t set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and does things!”

Peter winced and Polly rambled on:

“It’s really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles those children. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story––evergreens, red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribbon collars. They look powerful foolish, but they don’t look like poor Ginger, who acts as if he was being smothered!”

Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly:

“I guess we better change this dog’s name. Ginger is like an insult to him. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain’t no ginger left in him.”

“Peter, you’re all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is more gingery than ever. You don’t have to dash around after yer tail to prove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble even when yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimes makes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get away from you?”

“No.” Peter’s hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good signs and took heart.

“Why, he joins Mary-Clare’s dogs and fetches the littlest children to the yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I’ve seen that little crippled tot of Jonas Mills’ on Ginger’s back. Ain’t that ginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it’s you as ails that dog––he’s what you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn’t unmindful of sparrows, takes notice of dogs.” Then suddenly, Polly demanded: “Peter, what is it, just?”

Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back against its gay cretonne cushions––a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just where her aching head rested.

“Well, Polly”––Peter slapped the leg that he had lied about––“you and I came to the Forest half a century ago and felt real perky. We thought, under God, we’d make the Forest something better; the people more like people. We came from a city with all sorts of patterns of folks; we had ideas. The Forest gave me health and we were grateful and chesty. It all keeps coming back and––and swamping me.”

“Yes, brother, and what else?”

“At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up the bar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks and protecting ’em.” Peter gulped.

“I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter,” Polly remarked fiercely.

“Then Maclin came!” Peter groaned out the words, for this was the crux of the matter.

“Yes––Maclin came.” Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. “And I think, looking back, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was a tester.”

Peter gave a rumbling laugh.

“Maclin a tester!” he repeated. “Lord, Polly, yer notions are more messing than clearing.”

“Well, anyway, Peter Heathcote, Maclin came, and this I do say: places are like folks––if their constitutions are all right, they don’t take disease. Maclin was a disease, and we caught him! He settled on us and we hadn’t vim enough to know and understand what he was. If it hadn’t been Maclin it would have been another. As things are I do feel that Maclin has cleared our systems! The folks were wakened by him as nothing in the world could have wakened them.”

Peter was not listening, he was thinking aloud.

“All our years wasted! We felt so sure that we was capable that we just let folks fall into the hands of that evil man. Think of anything, bearing the image of God taking advantage of simple, honest people and letting them into what he did!”

“I never did think Maclin was in the image of God, Peter. All God’s children ain’t the spitting image of Him. And Maclin certainly did us a good turn when he found iron on the Point. The iron’s here––if he ain’t!”

“He meant to turn that and his damned inventions against us. Betray us to an enemy! And us just sitting and letting him do it!”

“Well, he didn’t do it!” Polly snapped. “And it seems like God is giving us another chance; same as He is the world.”

Peter got up and stumped noisily about the kitchen much to Ginger’s surprise and discomfort.

“We’re old, Polly,” he muttered; “the heart’s taken out of us. We led ’em astray because we didn’t lead ’em right.”

“I’m not old.” Polly looked comically defiant. “And my heart’s where it belongs and on the job. It’s shame to us, Peter, if we don’t use every scrap that’s left of us to undo the failings of the past.”

“And that night!” Peter groaned, recalling the night of Maclin’s arrest. “That’s what comes of being false to yer trust. Terrible, terrible! Twombley standing over Maclin with his gun after finding him flashing lights to God knows who, and then those government men hauling things out of his bags––why, Polly, in the middle of some black nights I get to seeing the look on Maclin’s face when he was caught!”

“Now, brother, do be sensible and wipe the sweat off yer forehead. This room is stifling. Can’t you see, Peter, that at a time like that the Lord had to use what He had, and there was only us to use? Better Twombley’s gun than Maclin’s, and you know, full well, they found two ugly looking guns in Maclin’s bag all packed with papers and pictures of the mines and bits of our own rock––what showed iron. Peter, I ain’t a bloodthirsty woman and the Lord knows I don’t hunger for my fellow’s vitals, but I’m willing to give Maclin up to a righteous God. The Lord knows we couldn’t deal with the like of him.”

“But, Polly”––poor Peter’s humanity had received a terrible jog––“the look on Maclin’s face––when he was caught!”

“Well! he ought to have had a look!” Polly snapped. “Several of us gave him looks. I remember that the Point men looked just as if it was resurrection day. They stiffened up and I say, Peter Heathcote, their backs ain’t slumped yet––oh! if only we could keep them stiff! It was an awful big thing to happen to a little place like the Forest. It’s terrible suggestive!”

But Peter could not be diverted.

“They were fearful rough with him––he, a trapped creature, Polly! I always feel as if one oughtn’t to harry a trapped thing. That’s not God’s way. It was all my fault! What was I a magistrate for––and just standing by––staring?”

“Well, he should have held still––he put up fight. Brother, you make me indignant.”

“They mauled him, Polly, mauled him. And they took him––to what?”

Polly got up.

“Peter,” she said, “you’re a sick man or you wouldn’t be such a fool. I always did hold that your easy-going ways might lead you into mush instead of clear vision, and it certainly looks as if I was right. What you need is a good spring tonic and more faith in God. Maclin was leading us into––what? Hasn’t he sent the old doctor’s boy into––what? The Almighty has got all sorts to deal with––and he’s got Maclin, but we’ve got what’s left. Peter, I put it up to you––what are we going to do about it?”

“What can we do?” Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spread knees––for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. “Has any one heard of Larry?”

This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not be asked.

“Yes, Peter. Twombley has,” she faltered.

“Where is he?” Peter’s mouth gaped.

“The letter said that when he came back we’d be proud of him and”––Polly choked––“he begged our pardons––for Maclin. He’s gone to that war––over there. He said it was all he could do––with himself, to prove against Maclin.”

A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catch in her voice:

“Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Better give Larry a chance to do his proving––before we get any hopes or fears to acting up.”

“I guess that’s sensible,” Peter nodded, “he mightn’t do it, you know.”

Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping from his face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losing its hold.

“It’s powerful hot here!” Peter muttered, wiping his face. “And what in thunder ails that dog?”

Ginger was certainly acting queer. He was circling around, sniffing, sniffing, his nose in the air, his tail wagging. He edged over to the door and smelt at the crack.

“Fits?” Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration.

“I believe, Peter,” she said solemnly, “Ginger smells––spring! I thought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges by the water. I do love edges, Peter! Let’s open the door wide, brother. We get so used to winter, and live so close, that sometimes we don’t know spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge of winter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Ginger old fellow, what’s the matter?”

Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. A soft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorway and a fragrance of young, edgy things thrilled them.

“Peter dear, spring is here!” Polly said this like a prayer.

“Spring!” Peter’s voice echoed the sound. Then he turned to the closet for his coat and hat.

“Where you going, brother?”

The big bulky figure, ready for a new adventure, turned at the door.

“Just going to the Point and stand by! We must take care of the old doc’s leavings. The iron, that boy of his, and––the rest. Come on, Ginger.”

Polly watched the two pass from sight and then she readjusted her spectacles to the far-off angle.

And while this was occurring at the inn there was a tap on the door of the yellow house, and with its welcoming characteristic in full play, the door swung in, leaving a tall woman on the threshold flushed and apologetic.

“I never saw such a responsive door!” she said. “I really knocked very gently. Please tell me how far it is to the inn?”

Mary-Clare, her little group of children about her, looked up and smiled. The smile and the eyes made the stranger’s breath come a bit quicker.

“Just three miles to the south.” Mary-Clare came close. “You are walking? I will send my little girl with you. Noreen?”

But Jan-an was holding Noreen back.

“She’s one of them other children of Eve!” she cautioned. “Don’t forget the other one!”

“Thank you so much,” the stranger was speaking. “But may I rest here for a moment? These children––is it a school.”

“A queer one, I’m afraid. We’re all teachers, all pupils––even the dogs.”

Mary-Clare looked at her small group.

“One has to do something, you know,” she said. “Something to help.”

“Yes. And will you send the children away for a moment? I have something to say to you.”

Mary-Clare’s face went white. Since Maclin’s exposure the girl knew a spiritual fear that never before had troubled her. Maclin and Larry! Doubt, uncertainty––they had done their worst for Mary-Clare.

When the children were gone the stranger leaned forward and said quietly:

“I am Mrs. Dana––I am here on government business. There, my dear Mrs. Rivers, please do not be alarmed––I come as your friend; the friend of King’s Forest; it is on the map, you know.”

The tears stood in Mary-Clare’s wide eyes, her lips trembled.

“I conscript you!” Mrs. Dana leaned a little further toward Mary-Clare and took her hands. “I was directed to you, Mrs. Rivers. You must help me do away with a wrong impression of the Forest. Together we will tell a story to the outside world that will change a great many things. We will tell the truth and set the Forest free from suspicion.”

“Oh! can we? Why, that would be the most splendid thing. We’re all so––so frightened.”

“Yes. I know. See, I have my credentials”––Mrs. Dana took a notebook from her bag. “The mines––well, all the danger there is destroyed. The mines are cleaned out.” She was reading from her notes.

“Yes.” Mary-Clare was impressed.

“And there’s iron on the Point––we must get at that––you own the Point?”

“No; I gave it to my husband.” The words were whispered. “And he sold it to a Mr. Northrup.” There was no holding back in King’s Forest these days.

“I see. Well, we must get this Mr. Northrup busy, then. Where is he?”

Mrs. Dana tucked the book away and her eyes looked kindly into Mary-Clare’s.

“I do not know. He went to his––to the city––New York.”

“And you have never heard from him?”

“No.”

“Well, Mrs. Rivers, I am your friend and the friend of the Forest. Together, we ought to be able to do it a good turn. And now, if you are willing, I would love to borrow your little girl.”

On the lake road Noreen, after a few skirmishes, succumbed to one of her sudden likings––she abandoned herself to Mrs. Dana’s charm. With her head coquettishly set slantwise she fixed her grave eyes––they were very like her mother’s––on Mrs. Dana’s face.

“I like the look of you,” she confided softly.

“I’m glad. I like the look of you very much, little Noreen.”

“Do you know any stories or songs?” Noreen had her private test.

“I used to, but it has been a long while since I thought about them. Do you know any, Noreen?”

“Oh! many. My man taught me. He taught me to be unafraid, too.”

“Your man, little girl?” Mrs. Dana turned her eyes away.

“Yes’m. Jan-an, she’s a bit queer, you know, Jan-an says the ghost-wind brought him. He only stayed a little while, but things aren’t ever going to be the same again. No’m, not ever! He even liked Jan-an, and most folks don’t––at first. His name is Mr. Northrup, but Jan-an and I call him The Man.”

“And he sang for you?”

“Yes’m. We sang together, marching along––this way!” Noreen swung the hand that held hers. “Do you know––‘Green jacket, red cap’?” she asked.

“I used to. It goes something like this––doesn’t it?

I have forgotten the rest.” Mrs. Dana closed her eyes.

“Oh! that’s kingdiferous,” Noreen laughed with delight. “I’ll sing the rest, then we’ll sing together:

They were keeping step and singing, rather brokenly, for Noreen was thinking of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur of moving men upon a weary road, for a little boy––a very little boy.

“Now, then,” Noreen insisted, “we can sing it betterer this time.

Suddenly Noreen stopped.

“Your face looks funny,” she said. “Your lips are laughing, but your eyes––is it the sun in your eyes?”

Mrs. Dana bent until her head was close to Noreen’s.

“Little girl, little Noreen,” she said, “that is it––the sun is in my eyes.”

“There’s the inn!” Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turning out quite as gaily as she hoped. Things did not, any more.

“Shall I go right to the door with you?” she asked.

“No. I want to go alone. Good-bye, Noreen.”

“I hope you’ll stay a long time!” Noreen paused on the road.

“Why, dear?”

“Because Motherly liked you, and I like you. Good-bye.”

And Mrs. Dana stayed a long time, though after the first week her sojourn was marked by incidents, not hours.

“Seems like the days of the creation,” Peter confided to Twombley. “Let there be light––there was light! Get the Forest to work––and the Forest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened––and a school. Queer, Twombley, how her being a woman and the easy sort, too, doesn’t seem to stop her none.”

Twombley shifted in his chair––the two men were sitting in the spring sunshine by Twombley’s door.

“The Government’s behind her!” he muttered confidently. “And, Heathcote, I ain’t monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclin night––anything the Government asks of me, I hold up my hands.”

“Yes, I reckon that’s safest.” Peter was uplifted, but cautious.

“She’s set Peneluna to painting all the houses––yeller,” Twombley rambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. 261 “And you know what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour’s mighty satisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there’s more in it than just colour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showing up on the ’tarnal paint that’s slushed everywhere.”

“Mighty queer doings!” Heathcote agreed.

“The women are plumb crazy over this government woman,” Twombley went on, “and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare are together early and late. Thick as corn mush.”

Peter drew his chair closer.

“Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest,” he whispered. “Writing things allas makes me nervous. What’s writ––is fixed.”

“Gosh! Heathcote; it’s like the Judgment Day and no place to hide in!”

“That’s about it, Twombley. No place to hide in.”

And then after weeks of strenuous effort Mrs. Dana went away as suddenly as she had come. She simply disappeared! But there was a peculiar sense of waiting in the Forest and a going on with what had been begun. The momentum carried the people along. The church was repaired, a school house started, the Point cleaned.

---

The summer passed, another winter––not so cruel as the last––and the spring came, less violently.

---

It was early summer when another event shook the none-too-steady Forest. Larry came home!

Jan-an discovered him sitting on a mossy rock, his back against a tree. The girl staggered away from him––she thought she saw a vision.

“It is––you, ain’t it?” she gasped.

“What’s left of me––yes.” There was a strange new note in Rivers’s voice.

Jan-an’s horror-filled eyes took in the significance of the words.

“Where’s––the rest of you?” she gasped.

Larry touched the pinned-up leg of his trousers.

“I paid a debt with the rest,” he said, and there was that in his voice that brought Jan-an closer to him.

“Where yer bound for?” she asked, her dull face quivering.

“I don’t know. A fellow gave me a lift and dropped me––here.”

“You come along home!” Jan-an bent and half lifted Larry. “Lean on me. There, now, lean heavy and take it easy.”

Mary-Clare was sitting in the living-room, sewing and singing, when the sound of steps startled her. She looked up, then her face changed as a dying face does.

“Larry!” she faltered. She was utterly unprepared. She had been kept in ignorance of the little that others knew.

“I––I’m played out––but I can go on.” Larry’s voice was husky and he drooped against Jan-an. Then Mary-Clare came forward, her arms opened wide, a radiance breaking over her cold white face.

“You have come––home, Larry! Home. Your father’s home.”

And then Larry’s head rested on her shoulder; her arms upheld him, for the crutch clattered to the floor.

“My father’s home,” he repeated like a hurt child––“that’s it––my father’s home.”

---