e on the hearth, Mary-Clare made her silent
covenant.

CHAPTER V

The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but he
had put those hours to good use.

He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becoming
part of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more he
was becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest.

"He's writing a book!" Aunt Polly confided to Peter. "But he doesn't
want anything said about it."

"He needn't get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon one
thing's as good as another to tell _us_. I lay my last dollar, Polly,
on this: he's after Maclin; not with him. I'm thinking the Forest will
get a shake-up some day and I'm willing to bide my time. Writing a
book! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Why
don't he take to knitting?"

Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might set
his conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but he
wanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end.

"Until further notice," he wrote to Manly, "I'm here, and let it go at
that. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch with
me. As for the rest, I've found myself, Manly. I'm getting acquainted,
and working like the devil."

Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked "Confidential,
but unimportant."

Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to
"unimportant," gave him two or three thoughts.

"The writing bug has got him, root and branch. He's burrowed in his
hole and wants the earth to tumble in over him. Talk about letting
sleeping dogs lie. Lord! they're nothing to the animals of Northrup's
type. And some darn fools"--Manly was thinking of Kathryn--"go nosing
around and yapping at the creatures' heels and feel hurt when they
turn and snap."

And Northrup, in his quiet room at the inn, slept at night like a
tired boy and dreamed. Now when Northrup began to dream, he was always
on the lookout. A few skirmishing, nonsensical dreams marked a state
of mind peculiarly associated with his best working mood. They caught
and held his attention; they were like signals of the real thing. The
Real Thing was a certain dream that, in every detail, was familiar to
Northrup and exact in its repetition.

Northrup had not been long at the inn when the significant dream
came.

He was back in a big sunny room that he knew as well as his own