“The book is awaiting its time, Mary-Clare. I must live up to it. I know that now. And the girl you once saw here, well! that is all past. It was one of those things that fell away!”
There was nothing to say to this, but Northrup heard a sharp indrawing of the breath, and felt the girl beside him stumble on the darkening trail.
“You know I went across the water to do my part?” he asked quickly.
“You would, of course. That call found such men as you. Larry went, too!” This came proudly.
“Yes, and he paid more than I did, Mary-Clare.”
“He had more to pay––there was Maclin. Do you know about Maclin?”
“Yes. It was damnable. We all scented the evil, but we’re not the sort of people to believe such deviltry until it’s forced upon us.”
“It frightened us all terribly,” Mary-Clare’s voice would always hold fear when she spoke of Maclin. “I do not know what would have happened to the Forest if––a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were at the worst.”
There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been half known. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clare spoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bit dazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad, illuminating truth! “You have heard of Mrs. Dana?” Mary-Clare asked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her.
“Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at the psychological moment.”