ayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up the
seam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then."

Northrup laughed aloud. He edged away from his isolation and said:

"Your doctor was a remarkable man. His memory lives in the Forest;
it's about the most vital thing here. It and all that preserves it."
His eyes rested upon Mary-Clare.

"Yes. He was wonderful. Lately he seems more alive than ever. He had
such simple rules of life--but they work. He told me so often that
when a trouble or anything like that came, there were but two ways to
meet it. If it was going to kill you, die at your best. If it wasn't,
get over it at once; never waste time--live as soon as possible." Was
there a note of warning in the words?

"And you're doing it?"

An understanding look passed between them.

"Yes, Mr. Northrup, for Noreen."

Back went Northrup to his place with a dull thud! Then Mary-Clare
hurried to a safer subject.

"I wish you would tell me about your book, Mr. Northrup. I have the
strangest feeling about it. It seems like a new kind of flower growing
in the Forest. I love flowers."

Northrup looked down at his companion. Her bared head, her musing,
radiant face excited and moved him. He had forgotten his book.

"You're rather like a strange growth yourself," he said daringly.

Mary-Clare smiled gaily.

"You'll have to blame my old doctor for that," she said.

"Or bless him," Northrup broke in.

"Yes, that's better, if it is true."

"It's tremendously true."

"A book"--again that elusive push--"must be a great responsibility.
Once you put your thoughts and words down and send them out--there you
are!"

"Yes. Good Lord! There you are."

"I knew that you would feel that way about it and that is why I would
like to hear you talk of it. It's a story, isn't it?"

"Yes, a story."

"You can reach further with a story."

"I suppose so. You do not have to knuckle down to rules. You can let
your vision have a say, and your feelings." Northrup, seeing that his
book must play a part, accepted that fact.

"I suppose"--Mary-Clare was looking wistfully up at Northrup--"all the
people in your books work out what you believe is truth. I can always
_feel_ truth in a book--or the lack of it."

In the near distance Noreen and Jan-an were gathering wood. They were
singing and shouting lustily.

"May I sit on your log?" Northrup spoke hurriedly.

"Of course," and Mary-Clare moved a little. "The sun's gon