No wonder Maclin, and the outraged Larry, saw distinctly the ridge on which the wreck was to occur.

But no one was taking into account that idealism in Mary-Clare that the old doctor had devoutly hoped would save her, not destroy her.

Northrup began to comprehend it during the more intimate conversations that took place when the children, playing apart, left him and Mary-Clare alone. The wonder grew upon him and humbled him. It was something he had never encountered before. A philosophy and code built entirely upon knowledge gained from books and interpreted by a singular strength and purity of mind. It piqued Northrup; he began to test it, never estimating danger for himself.

"Books are like people," Mary-Clare said one day--she was watching Northrup build a campfire and the last bit of sunlight fell full upon her--"the words are the costumes." She had marked the surprised look in Northrup's eyes as she quoted rather a bald sentiment from an old book.

"Yes, of course, and that's sound reasoning." For a moment Northrup felt as though a clear north wind were blowing away the dust in an overlooked corner of his mind. "But it's rather staggering to find that you read French," he added, for the quotation had been literally translated. "You do, don't you?"

"I do, a little. I'm taking it up again for Noreen."

Noreen's name was continually being brought into focus. It had the effect of pushing Northrup, metaphorically, into a safe zone. He resented this.

"She is afraid!" he thought. "Rivers has left his mark upon her mind, d.a.m.n him!"

This sentiment should have given warning, but it did not.

"I study nights"--Mary-Clare was speaking quite as if fear had no part in her thought--"French, mathematics--all the hard things that went in and--stuck."

"Hard things do stick, don't they?" Northrup hated the pushed-aside feeling.

"Terribly. But my doctor was adamant about hard things. He used to say that I'd learn to love chipping off the rough corners." Here Mary-Clare laughed, and the sound set Northrup's nerves a-tingle as the clear notes of music did.

"I can see myself now, Mr. Northrup, sitting behind my doctor on his horse, my book flattened out against his back. I'd ask questions; he'd fling the answers to me. Once I drew the map of Italy on his blessed old shoulders with crayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up the seam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then."

Northrup laughed aloud. He edged away from his isolation and said:

"Your doctor was a remarkable man. His memory lives in the Forest; it's about the most vital thing here. It and all that preserves it."

His eyes rested upon Mary-Clare.

"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 pa.s.sed 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 l.u.s.tily.

"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."

"That's just it. You _feel_ life. It isn't coloured for you by others.

You get its form, its hardness or softness, its fragrance or the reverse, but you fix your own colour. That's why you'd be such a ripping critic. Will you let me read some of my book to you?"

"Oh! of course. I'd be so glad and proud."

"Come, now, you're not joking?"