love her very much?"

"Very much. She's wonderful. My father died long ago."

Mary-Clare did not ask whether he loved his father or not, and she
hurried on:

"And now, when I try to think of you in your city, at your work, just
how shall I think of you? Make it like a picture."

Northrup struggled with himself. The girl beside him, in pushing him
from her life, was so unutterably sweet and brave.

"My dear, my dear!" he whispered, and remorse, pity, yearning rang in
the words.

"Make it like a picture!" Relentlessly the words were repeated. They
demanded that he give his best.

"Think of a high little room in a tall tower overlooking all cities,"
he began slowly, "the cheap, the beautiful, the glad, and the sad. The
steam and smoke roll up and seem to make a gauzy path upon which all
that really matters comes and goes as one sits and watches."

Mary-Clare's eyes were wide and vision-filled.

"Oh! thank you," she whispered. "I shall always see it and you so. And
sometimes, maybe when the sun is going down, as it is now, you will
see me on that trail that is just yours, in your city coming to--to
wish you well!"

"Good God!" Northrup shook himself. "What's got us two? We've worked
ourselves into a pretty state. Talking as, as if--Mary-Clare, I'm not
going away. There will be other days. It's that book of mine. Hang it!
We've got snarled in the book."

The weak efforts to ignore everything failed pitifully.

"No, it is life." Mary-Clare grew grim as Northrup relaxed. "But I
want you always to remember my old doctor's rule. If a thing is going
to kill you, die bravely; if it isn't, get over it at once and live
the best you can."

"God bless and keep you, Mary-Clare." Absolute surrender marked the
tone.

"He will!"

"But this is not good-bye!"

"No, it is not good-bye."

CHAPTER XII

While the days were passing and Mary-Clare and Northrup, with the book
between them as a shield, fought their battle and won their victory,
they had taken small heed of the undercurrent that was not merely
carrying them on, but bearing others, also.

Northrup was comfortably conscious of Aunt Polly and old Peter, at the
days' ends. The sense of going home to them was distinctly a joy, a
fitting and safe interlude.

Noreen and Jan-an supplied the light-comedy touch, for the two were
capable of supplying no end of fun when there were hours that could
not be utilized in work or devoted to that thrilling occupatio