had become part and parcel of the matter. "I'm going to find out and
you mustn't worry any more, Aunt Polly. We'll try Maclin at his own
game and go him one better. He cannot account for me, I'm making him
uneasy. Now you help the thing along by just squatting--that's a good
phrase of yours; one can accomplish much by just squatting on his
holdings."

And now that tricky imagination of Northrup's pictured Mary-Clare in
the thick of it and carrying out the old doctor's whims; taking to the
desolate bit of ground the sweetness and brightness of her
loveliness. It was disconcerting, but at the same time gratifying,
that pervasive quality of Mary-Clare. She was already as deep in the
plot of Northrup's work as she was in the Forest. Whenever Northrup
saw her, and he did often, on the road he was amused at the feeling he
had of _knowing_ her. So might it be had he come across an old
acquaintance who did not recognize him. It was a feeling wrought with
excitement and danger; he might some day startle her by taking
advantage of it.

The weather, after the storm, took an unexpected turn. Instead of
bringing frost it brought days almost as warm as late summer. The
colour glistened; the leaves clung to the branches, but the nights
were cool. The lake lay like an opal, flashing gorgeously in the sun,
or like a moonstone, when the sun sank behind the hills.

One afternoon Northrup went to the deserted chapel on the island. He
walked around the building which was covered with a crimson vine; he
looked up at the belfry, in which hung the bell so responsive to
unseen hands.

The place was like a haunted spot, but beautiful beyond words.
Northrup tried the door--it swung in; it shared the peculiarities of
all the other doors of the Forest.

Inside, the light came ruddily through the scarlet creeper that
covered the windows--no stained glass could have been more exquisite;
the benches were dusty and uncushioned, the pulpit dark and reproving
in its aloofness. By the most westerly window there was a space where,
apparently, an organ had once stood. There was a table near by and a
chair.

An idea gripped Northrup--he would come to the chapel and write. There
was a stove by the door. He could utilize that should necessity
arise.

He sat down and considered. Presently he was lost in the working out
of his growing plot; already he was well on his way. Over night, as it
were, his theme had become clear and connected. He meant to be