it was not, had never been, the real
Mary-Clare who had paid. Something had retreated during the bleak
years, that which remained fulfilled the daily tasks; kept its own
council, laughed at length, and knew a great joy in the baby Noreen,
seemed a proof that God was still with her while she held to what
appeared to be right.

And then the last child came, looked at her with its deep accusing
eyes and died!

In that hour, or so it seemed, the real Mary-Clare returned and
demanded recognition. There was to be no more compromise; no more
calling things by false names and striving to believe them real. There
was but one safe road: truth.

And Larry was coming home. He had not understood when he went away: he
would not understand now. Still, truth must be faced.

The letters!

Mary-Clare now leaned on the table, her eyes fixed upon the wall
opposite. The roughly carved words caught and held her attention.
Gradually it came to her, vaguely, flickeringly, like a will-o'-the-wisp
darting through a murky night, that if life meant anything it meant a
faith in what was true. She must not demand more than that; a sense
of truth.

As a little child may look across the familiar environment of its
nursery and contemplate its first unaided step, so Mary-Clare
considered her small world: her unthinking world of King's Forest, and
prepared to take her lonely course. The place in which she had been
born and bred: the love and friends that had held her close suddenly
became strange to her. What was to befall her, once she let go the
conventions that upheld her?

Well, that was not for her to ask. There was the letting go and then
the first unaided step. Nothing must hold her back--not even those
letters that had sustained her! In recognizing her big problem in her
small and crude world, Mary-Clare had no thought of casting aside her
obligation or duties--her distress was founded upon a fear that those
blessed, sacred duties would have none of her because she had not that
with which to buy favour.

There was Noreen--she was Larry's, too. Through the years Mary-Clare
had remembered that almost fiercely as she combated the child's
aversion to her father. Suddenly, as small things do occur at strained
moments, hurting like a cruel blow, a scene at the time when Noreen
was but four years old, rose vividly before her. Larry, sensing the
baby's hatred, had tried to force an outward show of obedience and
affection. He had commanded No