ng. All _they_
can give, vicariously, at this great demanding hour."

"Women must learn to stop that rubbish, Mother. We men must refuse
it."

"Why, Brace!" Then: "Are you quite, quite sure it was all for Kathryn,
son?"

"No, partly for myself; but that must include and emphasize Kathryn's
share."

"I see--at least I think I do."

"But you have faith, Mother?"

"Yes, faith! Surely, faith."

After a silence, broken only by the sputtering of the fire and that
soft, mystic pattering of the snow on the window glass, Northrup asked
gently:

"And you, Mother, what will you do? I cannot bear to think of you
waiting here alone."

Helen Northrup rose slowly from the couch; her long, loose gown
trailed softly as she walked to the fireplace and stood leaning one
elbow on the shelf.

"I'm not going to--wait, dear, in the sense you mean. I'm going to
work and get ready for your return."

"Work?" Northrup looked anxious. Helen smiled down upon him.

"While you have been preparing," she said, "so have I. There is
something for me to do. My poor little craft that I have pottered at,
keeping it alive and praying over it--my writing job, dear; I have
offered for service. It has been accepted. It is my great secret--I've
kept it for you as my last gift. When you come home, I'll tell you
about it. While you are away you must think of me, busy--busy!"

Then she bent and laid her pale fine face against the dark bowed
head.

"You are tired, dear, very, very tired. You must go to bed and
rest--there is so much to do; so much."

CHAPTER XXI

In King's Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened--but,
as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like a
cancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper--to the death.

The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliterated
links; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even they
ached with the pain of blows they had endured.

The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbed
and pulsated and to them, more often than of old--or so it seemed--the
bell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages--messages rung
out by unseen hands.

"There's mostly lost winds this winter," poor Jan-an whimpered to
Peneluna. "I have feelin's most all the time. I'm scared early and
late, and that cold my bones jingle."

Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl,
wrapped her in warm