anything he had heard cause him to change his
plans? This hectic story of a young woman had set his imagination
afire, but it must not make a fool of him. What really was taking
place became presently overpoweringly convincing.

"I am going to write!"

That was it! The story had struck his dull brain into action and he
had been caught in time, before running away. He had gained the thing
he had been pursuing, and he might have let it escape! The woman of
the yellow house became a mere bearer of a rare gift--his restored
power! He was safe; everything was safe. The world had righted itself
at last. It wasn't the woman with the dun-coloured ending to her story
that mattered; it was the story.

"I think I'll turn in," he said, stifling a yawn, "Good-night."

"Don't hurry about breakfast," Aunt Polly said gently. "Breakfast is
only a starter, I always hold. It's like kindlings to start the big
logs. Sleep well, and God bless you!"

She smiled up at her guest as if he were an old friend--come back!

Up in his room Northrup had difficulty in keeping himself from work.
He dared not begin; if he did he would write all night. He must be
sure. In the meantime, he wrote to his mother:

By the above heading you'll see how far I've got on my way,
searching for my lost health. I'm really in great shape. Manly was
right: I had to let go! I'm struggling now between two courses.
Apparently I was in a blue funk; all I needed was to find it out.
Well, I've found it out. Shall I come home and prove it by doing
the sensible thing, or shall I go on and make it doubly sure? If
anything important turns up I would telegraph, but in case I _do_
go on I want to do the job thoroughly and for a time lose myself.
I will wait your word, Mother.

Northrup was not seeking to deceive any one. He might strike out for
new places in a week, or he might, if the mood held, write in King's
Forest. It all depended upon the mood. What really mattered was an
unfettered state.

The vagrant in him, that had been starved and denied, rose supreme.
Now that he was sure that he was going to write, had a big theme,
there was excuse for his desire to be free. He would return to his
chink in the wall, as Manly explained, better fitted for it and with a
wider vision. He had a theory that a writer was, more or less, like a
person with a contagious disease: he should be exiled until all danger
to the peace and happiness of others was past. If o