e kernel, all he needed was some one ter steady him. Once
I made sure he'd married the gal, I felt right easy in my mind."

"And you--did make sure, Jim? There was no doubt? I--I remember the
pretty little thing; it would have been damnable to--to hurt her."

"I scrooged the main fact out o' old Pete, her father. There was a
mighty lot o' talk in the hills, but I was glad ter get the facts and
shut the mouths o' them that take ter--ter hissin' like all-fired
scorpions! Nella-Rose had writ to her father, but Marg, the sister, tore
the letter up in stormin' rage 'cause Nella-Rose had got the man she had
sot her feelin's on. Do you happen to call ter mind what I once told you
'bout those two gals and a little white hen?"

Truedale nodded.

"Same old actin' up!" Jim went on. "But when Greyson let out what war in
the letter--knowin' Burke like what I do--I studied it out cl'ar enough.
Nella-Rose was sure up agin blood and thunder whatever way yo' put
it--so she ran her chances with Burke. There ain't much choosin' fo'
women in the hills and Burke is an owdacious fiery feller, an' he ain't
ever set his mind to no woman but Nella-Rose."

That night Truedale went to his old cabin. He built a fire on the
hearth, drew the couch before it, and then the battle was on--the
fierce, relentless struggle. In it--Nella-Rose escaped. Like a bit of
the mist that the sun burns, so she was purified--consumed by the fire
of Truedale's remorse and shame. Not for a moment did he let the girl
bear a shadow of blame--he was done with that forever!--but he held
himself before the judgment seat of his own soul and he passed sentence
upon himself in terms that stern morality has evolved for its own
protection. But from out the wreck and ruin Truedale wrenched one sacred
truth to which he knew he must hold--or sink utterly. He could not
expect any one in God's world to understand; it must always be hidden in
his own soul, but that marriage of his and Nella-Rose's in the gray dawn
after the storm had been holy and binding to him. From now on he must
look upon the little mountain girl as a dear, dead wife--one whose
childish sweetness was part of a time when he had learned to laugh and
play, and forget the hard years that had gone to his un-making, not his
upbuilding.

CHAPTER XII

Truedale travelled back to the place of his new life bearing his books,
his unfinished play, and his secret sorrow with him. His books and
papers were the ex