"I ain't goin' ter predict." White set his lips. "When I stay, I stay,
but once I take ter the woods there ain't no sayin'. I'll fetch fodder
when I cum, and mail, too--but I ain't goin' ter hobble myself when I
take ter the sticks."

Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first
sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had
meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in the
deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himself
to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his
friends. He would brush up his capacity for work--it could not hurt him
now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect
ahead promised greater gains.

Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too--real letters. He had
neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not
matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And
thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play
upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have
been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life
into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they
had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it.
It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you
must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe
in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything
but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for that, wouldn't
you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to
him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White would
stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the doing for