oncentrated now upon the present and grimly accepted conditions as
they were. All power or inclination for struggle was past; the
inheritance of weakness which old William Truedale had feared and with
which Conning himself had so contended in his barren youth, asserted
itself and prepared to take unquestioningly what the present offered.

At that moment Truedale believed himself arbiter of his own fate and
Nella-Rose's. Conditions had forced him to this position and he was
ready to assume responsibility. There was no alternative; he must
accept things as they were and make them secure later on. For himself
the details of convention did not matter. He had always despised them.
In his youthful spiritual anarchy he had flouted them openly; they made
no claim upon his attention now, except where Nella-Rose was concerned.
Appearances were against him and her, but none but fools would allow
that to daunt them. He, Truedale, felt that no law of man was needed to
hold him to the course he had chosen, back on the day when he determined
to forsake the past and fling his fortunes in with the new. Never in his
life was Conning Truedale more sincere or, he believed, more wise, than
he was at that moment. And just then Nella-Rose appeared coming down the
rain-drenched path like a little ghost in the grim, gray dawn. She still
wore the heavy coat he had put about her, and her eyes were dreamy and
vague.

Truedale strode toward her and took her in his arms.

"My darling," he whispered, "are you able to come with me now--at
once--to the minister? It must be now, sweetheart--now!"

She looked at him like a child trying to understand his mood.

"Oh!" she said presently, "I 'most forgot. The minister has gone to a
burying back in the hills; he'll be gone a right long time. Bill Trim,
who carries all the news, told me to-day."

"Where is he, Nella-Rose?" Something seemed tightening around
Truedale's heart.

"Us-all don't know; he left it written on his door."

"Where is there another minister, Nella-Rose?"

"There is no other."

"This is absurd--of course there is another. We must start at once and
find him."

"Listen!" The face upon Truedale's breast was lifted. "You hear that?"

"Yes. What is it?" Truedale was alarmed.

"It means that the little streams are rivers; it means that the trails
are full of rocks and trees; it means"--the words sank to an awed
whisper--"it means that we must _fight_ for what we-all want to keep."