song down the trail rose joyously.

"I have thought of you"--Mary-Clare was catching her breath
sharply--"as Noreen has--a man brought by the haunted wind. It has all
been like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where you
belong, but I know there are those in that place who are like
Noreen."

"Yes!" Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell upon
his hands and Mary-Clare's.

"The wind is changing," said the woman. "The lovely autumn has been
kind and has stayed long."

"My dear, my dear--don't!" Northrup pleaded.

"Oh! but I must. You see I want you to think back, as I shall--at all
this as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you to
tell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must picture
you there now."

Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was a
cold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-like
quality in it, too.

It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understanding
of life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking to
smooth his way on ahead; to take the bitterness from a memory that,
without her sacrifice, might hold him back from what had been, was,
and must always be, inevitable. She was ignoring the weak, tempted
moment and linking the past with all that the future must hold for
them both.

There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow--to accept
the commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave that
hides a beautiful thing.

"You have never been to the city?"

There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolish
words.

"Yes, once. On my wedding trip."

This was unfortunate, but words without thought are wild things.

Mary-Clare hurried along while visions of Larry's city rose like smiting
rebukes to her heedlessness. Cheap theatres, noisy restaurants, gaudy
lights.

"My dear doctor and I always planned going together," she said
brokenly. "I believe there are many cities in the city. One has to
find his city for himself."

"Yes, that's exactly what one does." Northrup closed his hand closer
over the dead-cold one in his grasp.

"Your city, it must be wonderful."

"It will be a haunted city, Mary-Clare."

"Tell me about it. And tell me a little, if you don't mind, about your
people."

The bravery was almost heart-breaking, it caused Northrup's lips to
set grimly.

"There is my mother," he replied.

"I'm glad. You