“You’re giving up a great deal, Dick,” David said.  “I’m proud of you, and like you I think the money’s best where it is.  But this is a prejudiced town, and they think you’ve treated Elizabeth badly.  If you don’t intend to tell the story—­”

“Never,” Dick announced, firmly.  “Judson Clark is dead.”  He smiled at David with something of his old humor.  “I told Bassett to put up a monument if he wanted to.  But you’re right about one thing.  They’re not ready to take me back.  I’ve seen it a dozen times in the last two days.”

“I never gave up a fight yet.”  David’s voice was grim.

“On the other hand, I don’t want to make it uncomfortable for her.  We are bound to meet.  I’m putting my own feeling aside.  It doesn’t matter—­except of course to me.  What I thought was—­ We might go into the city.  Reynolds would buy the house.  He’s going to be married.”

But he found himself up against the stone wall of David’s opposition.  He was too old to be uprooted.  He liked to be able to find his way around in the dark.  He was almost childish about it, and perhaps a trifle terrified.  But it was his final argument that won Dick over.

“I thought you’d found out there’s nothing in running away from trouble.”

Dick straightened.

“You’re right,” he said.  “We’ll stay here and fight it out together.”

He helped David up the stairs to where the nurse stood waiting, and then went on into his own bedroom.  He surveyed it for the first time since his return with a sense of permanency and intimacy.  Here, from now on, was to center his life.  From this bed he would rise in the morning, to go back to it at night.  From this room he would go out to fight for place again, and for the old faith in him, for confiding eyes and the clasp of friendly hands.

He sat down by the window and with the feeling of dismissing them forever retraced slowly and painfully the last few months; the night on the mountains, and Bassett asleep by the fire; the man from the cabin caught under the tree, with his face looking up, strangely twisted, from among the branches; dawn in the alfalfa field, and the long night tramp; the boy who had recognized him in Chicago; David in his old walnut bed, shrivelled and dauntless; and his own going out into the night, with Lucy in the kitchen doorway, Elizabeth and Wallace Sayre on the verandah, and himself across the street under the trees; Beverly, and the illumination of his freedom from the old bonds; Gregory, glib and debonair, telling his lying story, and later on, flying to safety.  His half-brother!

All that, and now this quiet room, with David asleep beyond the wall and Minnie moving heavily in the kitchen below, setting her bread to rise.  It was anti-climacteric, ridiculous, wonderful.

Then he thought of Elizabeth, and it became terrible.

After Reynolds came up he put on a dressing-gown and went down the stairs.  The office was changed and looked strange and unfamiliar.  But when he opened the door and went into the laboratory nothing had been altered there.  It was as though he had left it yesterday; the microscope screwed to its stand, the sterilizer gleaming and ready.  It was as though it had waited for him.