It was a snowy night now, white and dry. In silence the two trudged on to the bungalow, then Drew said, "and you won't come in, Filmer, just for a word?"
"Thanks; no."
"Where are you going now?"
"To Hillcrest. I start from there to-morrow morning, after another talk with the little fellow I mentioned. I'm going to keep to the woods for a few days—they always brace me—then I'm going to make a break—for the coast."
"You'll—write—to—me—Jock?"
For a moment Filmer hesitated; then he said eagerly:
"Yes; as long as I'm fighting, I'll keep in touch. If I get down—you'll know by my—not writing. And Drew, I want to tell you something. That religion of yours is all right. It was the first kind that ever got into my system and—stayed there. It's got iron, red-hot iron in it, but it's got a homelike kind of friendliness about it that gives you heart to hope in this life, and let the next life take care of itself."
"Thank you, Filmer. That's going to make me—fight."
Another quick, strong handclasp—and then Drew turned toward the glowing windows of his home.
Filmer stood with uncovered head in the driving storm, and looked, with a great, hungry craving, up to the house that held the motive-power of his new life, and then, with a dull pain he grimly set his face toward—the coast.