hrup argued,
apparently to his useless right hand, what would become of the
spiritual, if woman got to setting up little gods and bowing down
before them? Why, she would forego her God-given heritage. To her,
love must be all. Above all else. Why, the very foundations of life
were founded upon that. What could be higher to a woman? Man could
look out for the rest, but he must be sure of his woman's love! The
rest would be in their own hands--that was their individual affair.

And then, at this crucial moment, Mary-Clare _would_ always intrude.

"It's what one does to love!" That was her stern ultimatum. "Love's
best proof might be renunciation, not surrender!"

"Nonsense!" Northrup flung back. "How then could a man be sure? No
book with such an ending would stand a chance."

"You must not harm your book by such a doubt. That book must be
_true_, and you know the truth. Women must be made glad by it, men
stronger because someone understands and is brave enough to say it."

But Northrup steeled his heart against this command. He meant to
finish his book; finish it with a flaming proof that, while men
offered their lives for duty, women offered theirs for love and did
not count the cost, like misers or--lenders.

One afternoon Northrup, the ink still wet upon the last sheet of his
manuscript, leaned back wearily in his chair. He could not conquer
Mary-Clare. He let his eyes rest upon his awakening city. For him it
rose at night. In the day it belonged to others--the men and women,
passing to and fro with those strange eyes and jaws. But when they all
passed to their homes, then the lone city that was his started like a
thing being born upon a hill.

It may have been at one of these strained moments that Northrup slept;
he was never able to decide. He seemed to hold to the twinkling
lights; he thought he heard sounds--the elevator just outside his
door; the rising wind.

However that may be, as clearly as any impression ever fixed itself
upon his consciousness, he saw Mary-Clare beside him in her stained
and ugly garb, her lovely hair ruffled as if she had been travelling
fast, and her great eyes turned upon him gladly. She was panting a
bit; smiling and thankful that she had found him, at last in his
city!

It was like being with her on that day when they stood on the mountain
near her cabin and talked.

Northrup was spellbound. He understood, though no word passed between
him and the girl so close to him. She