the answer. The scurrying wood
creatures and the dropping of dead leaves alone broke the silence.
Slowly, like one coming into consciousness, Mary-Clare drew one hand
from Northrup's, wiped her eyes, and then--let it fall again into
his!

"I can see clearer now," she faltered. "Please, please try to
understand. It is because love means so much to some women, that when
they think it out with their women-minds they will be very careful of
it. They will feel about it as men do about their honour. There must
be times when love must stand aside if they want to keep it! I know
how queer and crooked all this must sound, but men do not stop loving
if their honour makes them turn from it. We are all, men and women,
too, _parts_--we cannot act as if--oh! you do understand, I know you
do, and some day you will go on with your beautiful book."

"And the end of my book, Mary-Clare? There must be an end."

"I do not know. I do not think a great big book ever ends any more
than life ends."

Northrup was swept from his hard-wrought position at this. The next
wave of emotion might carry him higher, but for the moment he was
drifting, drifting.

"You do not know life, nor men, nor women," he said huskily and
clutched her hands in his. "If life cheats and injures you, you have a
right to snatch what joy you can. It's not only what you do to love,
but what you do to yourself, that counts. For real love can stand
anything."

"No, it cannot!" Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the hold
tighten on her hands; "it cannot stand dishonour. That's what kills
it."

"Dishonour! What _is_ dishonour?" Northrup asked bitterly. "I'm going
to prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man and
woman with a big enough love can throttle life; cheat the cheater."
This came defiantly.

But the book no longer served its purpose; it seemed to fall at the
feet of the man and woman, standing with clasped hands and hungry,
desperate eyes.

The words that might have changed their lives were never spoken, for,
down the trail gaily, joyously, came the sound of Noreen's voice,
shrilly singing one of the songs Northrup had taught her.

"That's what I mean by honour," Mary-Clare whispered. "Noreen and all
that she is! You, you _do_ understand about some women, don't you? You
will help, not hurt, such women, won't you?"

"For God's sake, Mary-Clare, don't!"

Northrup bent and touched his lips to the small work-stained hands.
The