to fill the time? He determined to force himself
to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his
friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt him
now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect
ahead promised greater gains.

Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had
neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not
matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And
thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play
upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have
been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life
into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they
had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it.
It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you
must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe
in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything
but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn't
you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to
him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White would
stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing for
himself, the time ahead was provided for already!

Stalking noiselessly forward, Truedale came into the clearing, passed
White's shack, and approached his own with a fixed determination. Then
he stopped short. He was positive that he had closed windows and
doors--the caution of the city still clung to him--but now both doors
and windows were set wide to the brilliant autumn day and a curl of
smoke from a lately replenished fire cheerfully rose in the clear, dry
air.

"Well, I'll be--!" and then Truedale quietly slipped to the rear of
the cabin and to a low, sliding window through which he could peer,
unobserved. One glance transfixed him.

CHAPTER II

The furnishing of the room was bare and plain--a deal table, a couple of
wooden chairs, a broad comfortable couch, a cupboard with some
nondescript crockery, and a good-sized mirror in the space between the
front door and the window. Before this glass a strange figure was
walking to and fro, enjoying hugely its own remarkable reflection.
Truedale's bedraggled bath robe hung like a mantle from the shoulders of
the intruder--they wer