The storm roared through the valley and left as abruptly as it had started. The heavy rain became a spatter, then a drizzle; it stopped and presently the sun was shining again. Mark left the window. There was an oil lantern in the bedroom. He lighted the lamp and looked at his mother's paintings, as he had done many times in the years since she had taken him camping. She knew, he thought. Always that one person, in the fields, at the doorway, on the river or ocean. Always just one. She knew what it was like. Without warning he started to sob, and threw himself down on the floor and wept until he was weak. Then he slept.

He dreamed the trees took him by the hand and led him to his mother and she held him close and sang and told him stories and they laughed together.

"Is it working?" Bob asked. "Can they be trained to live in the wilderness?"

Mark was in the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, forgotten by the doctors. He looked up from the book he was reading and waited for the answer.

"I don't know," Barry said. "Not for a lifetime, I don't think. For short periods, yes. But they'll never be woodsmen, if that's what you mean."

"Should we go ahead with the others next summer? Are they getting enough out of it to make a largescale attempt?"

Bruce shrugged. "It's been a training program for us too," he said. "I know I don't want to keep going back into those dismal woods. I dread my days more and more."

"Me too," Bob said. "That's why I brought this up now. Is there any real point to it?"

"You're thinking about the camp-out next week, aren't you?" Barry asked.

"Yes. I don't want to go. I know the boys are dreading it. You must be anxious about it."

Barry nodded. "You and I are too aware of what happened to Ben and Molly. But what's going to happen to those children when they leave here and have to spend night after night in the woods? If preparation like this can ease it for them, we have to do it."