r of twelve.

"Thank you."

That was all. The incident was closed and Northrup backed out, drawing
the humorous door after him. As the latch caught he heard a thin,
reedy voice, probably belonging to the vague girl, say:

"Now that he's gone, please go on. You got to where----"

Northrup found himself at the crossroads where, five minutes before,
he had stood, and there, in plain sight of any one not marked by Fate
for a turning-point, was a sign-board in perfectly good condition,
stating the fact that if one followed the direction, indicated by a
long, tapering finger, for three miles, he would come to Heathcote
Inn, "Open All the Year."

"The girl must take me for a fool, or worse!" thought Northrup. Then
he was conscious of a feeling that he had left something behind him in
that room he had just invaded. But no! His gripsack was securely
fastened on his back, his walking stick was in his hand, his hat upon
his head. Still he felt that lack of something.

"It's the air!" Northrup sniffed it. "I'm as hungry as a wolf, too.
Hungry as I used to be twenty years ago." Northrup was twenty-seven.
"Lord! what a day."

It was a day with which to reckon, there was no doubt about that. An
autumn day of silence, crispness, and colour. Suddenly, something
Manly had said came hurtingly into Northrup's consciousness: "... _or
a woman's face!_"

Then, because of the day and a certain regained strength, Northrup
laughed and shook off that impression of having left something behind
him and set off at a brisk rate on the road to the inn. He soon came
to the lake. It lay to the right of the road. The many-coloured hills
rose protectingly on the left. All along the edge of the water a
flaming trail of sumach marked the curves where the obliging land
withdrew as the lake intruded.

"I might be a thousand miles from home," Northrup thought as he swung
along.

In reality, he had been only a week on his way and had taken it easy.
He had made no plans; had walked until he was weary, had slept where
he could find quarters, and was doing what he had all his life wanted
to do, and which at last Manly had given him courage to do: leave the
self that circumstances had evolved and take to the open trail,
seeking, as Manly had figuratively put it, his real self.

During his long illness reality seemed to have fallen from his
perceptions--or was it unreality? He knew that he must find out or he
could never again hope to take his place a