Then Larry spoke, but the laugh no longer rang in his tone:
“She’ll be coming, by now, down the trail,” he whispered. “Go and meet her, tell her you’ve been here, that I told you where she was––nothing more! Nothing more. Ever!”
“That’s right, never!” Northrup murmured. Then he added:
“I’ll come back with her, Rivers, soon. I’m going to stay at the inn for a time.”
Their hands clung together for a moment longer while one man relinquished, the other accepted. Then Northrup turned to the door.
There was a dull purplish glow falling on the Forest. The subtle, haunting smell of wood smoke rose pungently. It brought back, almost hurtingly, the past. Northrup walked rapidly along the trail. Hurrying, hurrying to meet––he knew not what!
Presently he saw Mary-Clare, from a distance, in the ghostly woods. Her head was bowed, her hands clasped lightly before her. There was no haste, no anticipation in her appearance; she simply came along!
The sight of youth beaten is a terrible sight, and Mary-Clare, off her guard, alone and suffering, believed herself 280 beaten. She was close to Northrup before she saw him. For a moment he feared the shock was going to be too great for her endurance. She turned white––then the quick red rose threateningly, the eyes dimmed.
Northrup did not speak––he could not. With gratitude he presently saw the dear head lift bravely, the trembling smile curl her cold lips.
“You––have come!”