But she had faced the task with all the splendid, impetuous courage that was hers.  There was no shrinking.  Her mind was swiftly and irrevocably made up.  She would abandon the Skandinavia for ever.  She would abandon everything and follow those dictates which had prompted her so often in the past.  Father Adam’s self-sacrificing example was always before her.  The forests.  Those submerged legions which peopled them.  Was there not some means by which she could join in the work of rescue?  She would talk to Father Adam.  She felt he would help her.  She wanted nothing for herself.  If only the rest of her life could be translated into some small imitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, she felt her atonement might be counted as something commensurate.

It was not until her decision had been taken that she permitted herself to seek beyond it.  But once it was taken the crushing sense of added desolation well-nigh paralysed her.  Somehow, never before had she understood.  But now—­now the sacrifice of it all swept upon her with an overwhelming rush.  Bull Sternford.  Bull Sternford, the man whom with all her power she had striven to defeat, the man whose strength and force of character had so appealed to her, the man who must hate her as any clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile, she would never see him again.

Oh, she knew now.  She made no attempt at denial.  It would have been quite useless.  She loved him.  From the moment she had looked into his honest eyes, and realised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their first meeting, she had loved him.  She must cut him out of her life.  It was the penalty she must pay for her crimes.

And now the moment had arrived when she must put her plans into operation.  Time was pressing.  The season was advancing.  So she had chosen the hour at which she served tea to Father Adam as the best in which to seek his advice and support.

* * * * *

The light tap on Father Adam’s door was answered instantly.  Nancy passed into the room with trepidation in her heart, but the hand bearing the tea tray was without a tremor.

The man whose life belonged to the twilight of the northern forests was seated in a deep rocker-chair under the window through which the setting sun was pouring its pleasant spring light.  He had been reading.  But his book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up and smiled the thanks which his words hastily poured forth.

“You know, Nancy, you’re completely spoiling me,” he said.  “I’m going to hate my forest coffee out of a rusty pannikin.  I don’t know how I’m going on when I pull my freight out of here.”

The girl’s responsive smile faded abruptly as she set the tray on the table beside the chair.

“When are you going to—­pull your freight?” she asked, with a curious, nervous abruptness.

For a moment the man’s eyes were averted.  Then he straightened up his tall, somewhat stooping figure.  He flung his lean shoulders back, and opened his arms wide.  And as he did so he laughed in the pleasant fashion which Nancy had grown accustomed to.