"I have tried." Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught the note of joy in her grieving voice.

"You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you."

"Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that."

"Good-night." Northrup released the cold hands--they clung for a moment in a weak, human way. "There is to-morrow, you know," he whispered.

Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange feeling of having left something back there in the yellow house.

He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew; the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and on ahead the lights of the inn twinkled.

And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemed to be following, following in the darkness.

Northrup's lips closed grimly. He squared his shoulders to his task.

He must go on, keeping his mind fixed upon the brighter hope that Mary-Clare could not, now, see; must not now see. For her, there must be the dark stretch; for him the glory of keeping the brightness undimmed--it must be a safe place for her to rest in, by and by. "She has kept the faith with life," Northrup thought. "She will keep it with death--but love must keep faith with her."

THE END