Returned to Oakdale, Grace’s first step was toward finding Jean, whose long residence in the snug cabin in Upton Wood had made him seem like a part of the forest itself.  Greatly to her dismay, old Jean was not to be found.  Nora, Hippy, Elfreda and herself made a trip to the cabin only to find it locked.  On a bit of paper tacked to the door, appeared the laboriously written notice:  “Gone way June 2.  Come back som day.”

It was a tragic downfall to the new hope that Grace had been confidently nursing, and it took all the fortitude she could summon to recover even in a measure from her bitter disappointment.  Where to look for Jean she had not the remotest notion.  She knew only too well that “som day” was quite likely to mean next winter.  Jean was one of those rare persons who can follow the dictates of his own pleasure.  The whole woodland universe was his to roam at will.  His life-long communion with Nature had taught him to supply his simple wants with the ease with which the prehistoric denizens of the forest had attended to theirs, and life was to him one glorious succession of light-hearted wayfaring.

Every now and then, however, he would descend upon his lonely cabin, laden with the spoils of the chase, which found a ready market in Oakdale.  After one of these jaunts he was always sure to find plenty of work awaiting him, for aside from his prowess as a hunter, he was a veritable Jack of all trades whose services were always in keen demand.

J. Elfreda Briggs was also downcast over the fact that her suggestion could not be immediately carried out.  Determined not to be balked, she asked Grace’s permission to mail “personals” addressed to Jean to a number of newspapers published in various large cities of the United States.  But these notices brought no reply from the old hunter, who, it seemed, had vanished from the busy world as completely as had Tom Gray.

In the meantime the Wingates, Elfreda and Grace made it a point to institute a vigorous inquiry throughout Oakdale, in the hope of finding someone who could give them some definite information regarding where Jean had gone.  From several persons who had talked with the old hunter before his departure, they learned only that he had announced his intention to go away on a long expedition, but had neglected to state what part of the country he intended to traverse.

Contrary to Mrs. Gray’s and her own expectation that the news of Tom’s unexplained dropping-out of his own particular world of friends and acquaintances would create disturbing gossip, Grace was supremely touched by the sympathetic loyalty of her townspeople.  Until visited by adversity, she had never even suspected that she ranked so high in their esteem.  Each day brought her some fresh proof of consideration and sympathy from the good-hearted residents of the little city of her birth.  Not one slighting or detrimental comment against either herself or Tom came to her ears.  It was as though the entire populace had risen to her standard in the name of friendship.  She was now wholly content that the sad affair was no longer a secret.

Yet even the undivided consideration of her townspeople could not serve to throw a ray of light on the mystery.  It was now the latter part of September and not a word of encouragement had come from David Nesbit, who had returned to the lumber country to pursue his lonely search until Mr. Blaisdell should again join him.  True, David kept the anxious watchers fully informed of his movements, but the burden of his messages was always, “Nothing new about poor Tom has come to light.”

During these days of dreary uncertainty, Elfreda proved herself a comforter indeed.  Although a week had elapsed since she had taken up her residence under the Harlowe’s hospitable roof, she calmly announced her intention to stay on and await developments.  Her repeated cheery assertion, “Everything will come out all right yet,” did much to help Grace maintain the hopeful stand she had forced herself to take.  She could hardly bear to have Elfreda out of her sight, so greatly had she come to rely on her.  On the other hand, Elfreda was supremely satisfied with her rôle of guardian angel.  She regarded Grace as the direct inspiration to every good deed she had ever performed, and humbly congratulated herself on being for once granted an opportunity to make some small return for the countless favors she had received at Grace’s hands.

To Elfreda herself, however, it appeared that she had been able to do very little.  This thought was troubling her one hazy autumn afternoon as the two girls silently ascended the steps to Haven Home, whither they had walked through Upton Wood, to spend an hour or two.  Elfreda was not fond of these frequent visits to the House Behind the World.  They were invariably fraught with melancholy.  Grace was always fairly cheerful at the start, yet the moment her gray eyes glimpsed Haven Home the old, wistful shadow crept into them.

Once inside the stately old house, her depression became even more apparent.  Haven Home was now in complete order, even to the little personal touches which greatly enhanced the beauty of the tasteful furnishings.  The color schemes for the various rooms had been decided upon by Tom and Grace during those first happy hours of possession.  How energetically they had entered into even the smallest details, and how enthusiastically they had engrossed themselves with the joyful labor of planning the arrangement of the furniture and the countless appointments.  Both had agreed that everything in the house should signify comfort rather than elegance, in order that, when the last triumphant touch had been given to it, Haven Home should be a home indeed.

To carry on bravely the work which she and Tom had begun had been an excruciating torture to Grace, made endurable only by the thought that at least she was fulfilling Tom’s wishes.  She was ever urged on to her sorrowful task by the one consolation that when the blessed day of Tom’s return dawned, and she believed that it must, he would find that she had been loyal to his interests.  She had not sat down to mourn, her hands idle.  She had faithfully labored to make their dream of home come true.  Though the winter of sorrow held her in its icy grip, the Golden Summer of love still bloomed fresh and fragrant in her heart.

“I don’t think you ought to come here so much, Grace.”  Elfreda’s matter-of-fact tones roused Grace from the somber reverie which had obsessed her as she stood in the center of the living-room, her absent gaze on a painting which Tom had especially fancied.  It represented a young man in the dress of a cavalier and a beautiful girl in a simple high-waisted gown of white, strolling through a field of starry daisies.  On both faces was the rapt expression of complete absorption that betokened the knowledge of their great love for each other.  Looming up, a trifle in their rear, a gigantic black-robed figure, with a terrifying face, was hurrying, with great strides, across the blossoming meadow to overtake the absorbed pair.  One had only to glance at the painting to realize that in simply naming it “Fate” the artist had rightly suited the legend to his conception.

“Why not?” asked Grace, her attention still on the painting.

“Because it’s not good for you,” protested Elfreda sturdily.  “It isn’t as though the house needed your attention.  It’s in perfect order and the prettiest, most comfortable place I ever set foot in.  You’ve done everything here that can be done.  Now if I were you I’d hold up my right hand and swear not to come here again until I stepped over the threshold with Tom Gray.  Every time, after we pay our respects to Haven Home, you go away from it with the expression in your eyes of an early Christian martyr going to the stake.  Not that you ever complain.  If you went around weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth, I’d be better satisfied.  But you don’t.  Your face simply takes on a hurt, despairing look that makes me sick at heart.”

“I know it isn’t good for me to come here,” was Grace’s frank admission.  “Each time I say, ‘This must be the last,’ and yet somehow I can’t stay away.  My whole heart is bound up in Haven Home.  It’s the most wonderful and at the same time the saddest place in the world to me.  And this picture!  It fascinates me.  When Tom and I chose it, we didn’t dream that Fate was hurrying to overtake us.”

“I’d turn it toward the wall,” counseled Elfreda gruffly.  “It’s beautiful, but it gives me the creeps.  It upsets you more than anything else in this house.  Every time you come here, I’ve noticed you go straight to it.  I can see that it’s a Jonah.  Do you give me leave to do the reversing act?” Elfreda grinned boyishly, yet her round blue eyes were purposeful.  It would have given her infinite pleasure to summarily bundle the offending painting into Upton Wood, leaving it to the mercy of the elements.

“You may turn it toward the wall if you like.”  Grace sighed as she tore her gaze from the painting.  “It’s rather heavy, though, and you will have a hard time reaching up to it.”

“Oh, that’s nothing.  There’s a step ladder on the back porch.  I noticed it the last time we were over here.”  Elfreda hurried from the room to wrest the ladder from its lowly haunt.  Returning she set it in place before the painting and climbed the four steps to the top with joyful alacrity.

Grace followed the movements of her energetic companion with moody interest.  She was glad yet sorry to watch the change Elfreda was about to make.

“I can’t reverse it up here,” grumbled Elfreda.  “I’m afraid of dropping it.  I’ll have to get down from the ladder with it, then turn it around.”

Carefully descending, she laid the so-called Jonah face down on the top step of the ladder, paused for an instant before completing her task.

“Oh, look!” Grace cried out, staring hard at the back of the picture.  Standing out on it in letters of blue a single sentence had been pencilled.

Elfreda peered curiously at the writing.  “True love laughs at Fate,” she read.  “That’s odd!  Who in the world wrote that?”

“It was Tom.”  Grace drew a long breath.  “Seeing his writing gave me a queer thrill for a minute.  It was just as though out of the silence he had suddenly spoken.  Then I remembered.  When the painting was unwrapped we stood looking at it.  Tom had a blue pencil in one hand.  He had been checking off a list of our belongings.  I said that the painting was beautiful but sinister, and that I hoped that no such terrible figure of Fate would ever overtake us.  Tom laughed and said he would put a spell on the picture.  So he took the blue pencil and scribbled that sentence on the back of it.  Then he hung it on the wall.  I never recalled the incident until this moment.  I’m glad you suggested reversing ‘Fate,’ Elfreda.  I’d rather have it so.  The very sight of his handwriting is a comfort.”

“It’s an omen,” Elfreda declared solemnly, her plump face alive with superstition.  “Yes, sir; it’s an omen.  I can see that it’s a fore-runner of good luck.”