ew Maclin rarely drank beer.

An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talking
slowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Their
dull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement that
amounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloft
and muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer.

Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machines
of the mines, but a vital force ready for action.

CHAPTER XIII

Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life after
that revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sense
deceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able to
classify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As it
stood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusual
qualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strain
of repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his future
with remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but go
away and let the incidents of King's Forest bear sanctifying fruits,
not draughts of wormwood.

Something rather big had happened to him--he must not permit it to
become small. He recalled Mary-Clare's words and face and a great
tenderness swept over him.

"Poor little girl," he thought, "part of a commonplace, dingy tragedy.
What is there for her? But what could I have done for her, in God's
name, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough."

No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing and
go home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situation
was bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding to
leave and actually leaving were different matters.

The weather jeered at him by its glorious warmth and colour. It _held_
day after day with occasional sharp storms that ended in greater
beauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried to
work: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but he
knew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in the
story--the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt as if
he were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had time
finally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meeting
Mary-Clare.

"I'll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks," he
compromised with his lesser--or better--self. "Then I'll beat it!"

Looking t