did not try to touch him, but
she did, presently, move a step nearer and lay her little work-worn
hand upon the pile of manuscript in that quaint way of hers that had
so often made Northrup smile. It was a reverent touch.

Standing so, she sealed from him those last chapters! She would not
argue or be set aside--she claimed her woman-right; the right to the
truth as some women saw it, as more would see it; as, God willing,
Northrup himself would see it some day! He would know that it was
because of love that she had turned him and herself to duty.

Northrup suddenly found himself on his feet.

The little room was dark; the city was blazing about him--under him.
His city! His hand lay upon his manuscript.

Quietly he took it up and locked it in his safe. Slowly, reverently,
he set the bare room in order without turning on the electricity. He
worked in the dark but his vision was never clearer. He went out,
locked the door, as one does upon a chamber, sacred and secret.

He did not think of Mary-Clare, his mother, or Kathryn--he was setting
forth to do that which had to be done; he was going to give what was
his to give to that struggle across the ocean for right; the proving
of right.

All along, his unrest had been caused by the warring elements in
himself--there was only one way out--he must take it and be proved as
the world was being proved.

CHAPTER XX

"Mother, I must go!"

Helen Northrup did not tremble, but she looked white, thin-lipped.

"You have given me the twenty-four hours, son. You have weighed the
question--it is not emotional excitement?"

"No, Mother, it is conscience. I'm not in the least under an illusion.
If I thought of this thing as war--a mere fight--I know I would be
glad to avail myself of any honourable course and remain here. But
it's bigger than war, that Thing that is deafening and blinding the
world. Sometimes"--Northrup went over to the window and looked out
into the still white mystery of the first snowstorm--"sometimes I
think it is God Almighty's last desperate way to awaken us."

Helen Northrup came to the window and stood beside her son. She did
not touch him; she stood close--that was all.

"I cannot see God in this," she whispered. "God could have found
another way. I have--lost God. I fear most of us have."

"Perhaps we never had Him," Northrup murmured.

"But there _is_ God--somewhere." Helen's voice quivered. "I shall
always be near you, beloved, alway