[Illustration: "_Joan rose from her self-appointed task. She lookedat Thornton and throbbed with hate--but as she looked her mood againchanged--she felt such pity as she had never known in her life before. _"]

THE SHIELD OF SILENCE

BY HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS, ETC. 

FRONTISPIECE BY GEORGE LOUGHRIDGE

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

 * * * * *

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BYDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATIONINTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATESATTHE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

 * * * * *

TO MY SONPHILIP S. COMSTOCK

"We will grasp the hands of men and women; and slowlyholding one another's hands we will work our way upwards. "

 * * * * *

THE SHIELD OF SILENCE

_Let us agree at once that_--

We are all on the Wheel. The difference lies in our ability to cling orlet go. Meredith Thornton and old Becky Adams--let go!

Across the world's heart they fell--the heart of the world may be wideor narrow--and, by the law of attraction, they came to Ridge House andSister Angela. 

Unlike, and separated by every circumstance that, according to theexpected, should have kept them apart--they still had the same problemto confront and the solution had its beginning in that pleasant home forEpiscopal Sisters which clings so enchantingly along the north side ofwhat is known as Silver Gap, a cleft in the Southern mountains. 

To say the solution of these women's problems had its beginnings inRidge House is true; but that they were ever solved is another matterand this story deals with that. 

Meredith Thornton was young and beautiful. Up to the hour that she letgo she had lived as they live who are drugged. She had looked on lifewith her senses blurred and her actions largely controlled by others. 

Old Becky, on the other hand, had gripped life with no uncertain hold;she, according to the vernacular of her hills, "had the call to larn, "and she learned deeply. 

Sister Angela had clung to the Wheel. She had swung well around thecircle and she believed she was nearing the end when the strange demandwas made upon her. 

The demand was made by Meredith Thornton and Becky Adams. Meredith, fromher great distance, somewhat prepared Sister Angela by a letter, butBecky, being unable either to read or write, simply took to the trailfrom her lonely cabin on Thunder Peak and claimed a promise made threeyears before. 

And now, since _The Rock_ played a definite part in what happened, itshould have a word here. 

In a land where nearly all the solid substance is rock--not stone, mindyou--_The Rock_ held a peculiar position. It dominated the landscape andthe imagination of Silver Gap, and the superstition as well. It was ahuge, greenish-white mass, a mile to the east of Thunder Peak, and overits smooth face innumerable waterfalls trickled and shone. With thiscolour and motion, like a mighty Artist, the wind and light played, forming pictures that needed little fancy to discern. 

At times cities would be delicately outlined with towers and roofsrising loftily; then again one might see a deep wood with a road windingfar and away, luring home-tied feet to wander. And sometimes--not often, to be sure--the Ship would ride at anchor as on a painted sea. 

The Ship boded no good to Silver Gap as any one could tell. It hadbrought the plague and the flood; it brought bad crops and raids onhidden stills; it waited until its evil cargo had done its worst andthen it sailed away in the night, bearing its pitiful load of dead, orits burden of fear and hate. Surely there was good and sufficient reasonfor dreading the appearance of The Ship, and on a certain autumn morningit appeared and soon after the two women, unknown to each other, came toRidge House and this story began. 

CHAPTER I

"_Wait and thy soul shall speak. _"

There is, in the human soul, as in the depths of the ocean, a state ofeternal calm. Around it the waves of unrest may surge and roar but therepeace reigns. In that sanctuary the tides are born and, in theirappointed time, swelling and rising, they carry the poor jetsam andflotsam of life before them. 

The tide was rising in the soul of Meredith Thornton; she was awake atlast. Awake as people are who have lived with their faculties drugged. The condition was partly due to the education and training of the woman, and largely to her own ability in the past to close her senses to anyconception of life that differed from her desires. She had always beenlike that. She loved beauty and music; she loved goodness and happiness;she loved them whom she loved so well that she shut all others out. Consequently, when Life tore her defences away she had no guidance uponwhich to depend but that which had lain hidden in the secret place ofher soul. 

As a little child Meredith and her older sister, Doris, lived in NewYork. Their house had been in the Fletcher family for three generationsand stood at the end of a dignified row, opposite a park whose irongates opened only to those considered worthy of owning a key--theFletchers had a key!

In the park the little Fletcher girls played--if one could call itplay--under the eye of a carefully selected maid whose glance wasexpected to rest constantly upon them. The anxious father tried to dohis double duty conscientiously, for the mother had died at Meredith'sbirth. 

The children often peered through the high fence (it really was more funthan the stupid games directed by their elders) and wondered--at leastDoris wondered; Meredith was either amused or shocked; if the latter itwas an easy matter to turn aside. This hurt Doris, and to her plea thatthe thing was there, Meredith returned that she did not believe it, andshe did not, either. 

Once, shielded by the skirts of an outgoing maid, Doris made her escapeand, for two thrilling and enlightening hours, revelled in the companyof the Great Unknown who were not deemed worthy of keys. 

Doris had found them vital, absorbing, and human; they changed the wholecurrent of her life and thought; she was never the same again, neitherwas anything else. 

The nurse was at once dismissed and Mr. Fletcher placed his daughters inthe care of Sister Angela, who was then at the head of a fashionableschool for girls--St. Mary's, it was called. 

Sister Angela believed in keys but had ideas as to their uses and thegood sense to keep them out of sight. 

Under her wise and loving rule Doris Fletcher never suspected the holdupon her and, while she did not forget the experience she had once hadoutside the park, she no longer yearned to repeat it, for the presentwas wholesomely full. As for Meredith, she felt that all danger wasremoved--for Doris; for herself, what could shatter her joy? It was onlyrunning outside gates that brought trouble. 

Just after the Fletcher girls graduated from St. Mary's Sister Angela'shealth failed. 

Mr. Fletcher at this time proved his gratitude and affection in adelicate and understanding way. He bought a neglected estate in theSouth and provided a sufficient sum of money for its restoration andupkeep, and this he put in Sister Angela's care. 

"There is need of such work as you can do there, " he said; "and it hasalways been a dream of my life to help those people of the hills. Sister, make my dream come true. "

Angela at once got in touch with Father Noble, who was winning his wayagainst great odds in the country surrounding Silver Gap, and offeredher services. 

"Come and live here, " Father Noble replied. "It is all we can do atpresent. They do not want us, " he had a quaint humour, "but we mustchange that. "

Mr. Fletcher did not live long enough to see his dream do more than helpprolong Sister Angela's days, for he died a year later leaving, to hisdaughters, a large fortune, well invested, and no commands as to itsuse. This faith touched both girls deeply. 

"I want to travel and see all the beautiful things in the world, "Meredith said when the time for expression came. 

"Yes, dear, " Doris replied, "and you must learn what life really means. "

Naturally at this critical moment both girls turned to Sister Angela, but with the rare insight that had not deserted her, she held them fromher, though her heart hungered for them. 

"Ridge House is in the making, " she wrote. "I am going slow, making nomistakes. I am asking some Sisters who, like me, have fallen by the way, to come here and help me with my scheme, and in the confusion ofreadjustment, two young girls, who ought to be forming their own plans, would be sadly in the way. 

"Go abroad, my dears, take"--here Sister Angela named a woman she couldtrust to help, not hinder--"and learn to walk alone at last. "

Doris accepted the advice and the little party went to Italy. 

"Here, " she said, "Merry shall have the beauty she craves and she shalllearn what life means, as well. "

And Meredith's learning began. 

They had only been in Italy a month when George Thornton appeared. Hewas young, handsome, and already so successful in business that oldermen cast approving eyes upon him. He had chosen, at the outset of hiscareer, to go to the Philippines and accepted an appointment there. Hehad devoted himself so rigidly to his duties that his health began toshow the strain and he was taking his first, well-won, vacation when hemet the Fletchers. 

Thornton's past had been spent largely with men who, like himself, weremaking their way among people, and in an environment in which the fineraspects of life were disregarded. He had enjoyed himself, made himselfpopular, and for the rest he had waited until such a time as his successwould make choice possible. When he met Meredith Fletcher he felt thetime had come. The girl's exquisite aloofness, her fineness andsweetness, bewitched him. The real meaning of her character did notinterest him at all. Here was something that he wanted; the rest wouldbe an easy conquest. Thornton had always got what he wanted and laysiege to Meredith's heart at once. 

His approach, while it swept Meredith before it, naturally aroused fearand apprehension in Doris. To Meredith, Thornton was an idealmaterialized; to Doris, he was a menace to all that she held sacred. Shedistrusted him for the very traits that appealed to her sister. But shedared not oppose, for to every inquiry she hurriedly made--and there wasneed of hurry--she received only favourable reports. 

Thornton's own fortune and prospects set aside any fears as to mercenarydesigns; he had no near relatives, but distant cousins in England werepeople of refinement and culture and on excellent terms with Thornton. Breathlessly Thornton carried everything before him. Six weeks after hemet Meredith he married her. 

"Why, you do not know the child, " Doris had faltered when the hastymarriage was proposed, "I'm only learning to know her myself. She hasnever grown up. She sees life as she used to see it through the gates ofthe park in which she played as a little girl. She has been locked away. It is appalling. I could not believe, unless I knew, that any one couldbe like Merry. "

Of course Thornton did not understand. 

"Let me have the key, " he jokingly said, "let me lead Merry out. It willbe the biggest thing of my life. "

And Doris knew that unless the key were given he would break the lock, so Meredith was married in the little American chapel on the hillsideand she looked as if she were walking in a love-filled dream as she wentout of Doris's life. 

Thornton took his wife to the Philippines by way of her New York home. For a week they stayed in it, and it was there that the first sense ofloss touched Meredith. The stirring effect of all that she had recentlygone through was wearing away, and Doris, and all that Doris meant inthe past, haunted the big, quiet house. 

"This will never do, " thought Thornton, and for the first time he sensedthe power the older sister had over the younger. It was already makingits way into his kingdom, and Thornton never shared what was his own!

Doris remained abroad for a time, readjusting her life as one does whois maimed. Her devotion to Meredith, she saw now, had been her onepassion--to what could she turn?

The letters that presently came from Meredith, while they set much ofher fear at rest, made her feel more lonely, nor did they seem to sether free to make permanent plans. She sank into a waiting mood--waitingfor letters!

"I'll play around Europe for awhile, " she whimsically decided. "I'll buythings for that chapel Sister Angela is planning, and polish my manners. And, " here Doris grew grave, "I'll think of David Martin! I wish I couldlove Davey enough to marry him as I feel he wants me to--and let himblot out this ache for Merry. " But that was not to be. 

And Meredith wrote her letters to her sister and smiled upon herhusband--for after the third month of her marriage that was the best shecould do for either of them. All the ideals of her self-blinded lifewere being swept away in the glaring flame of reality. 

Thornton was still infatuated and went to great lengths to prove to hispale, starry-eyed wife her power over him. He was delighted at theimpression she made upon the rather hectic but exclusive circle in whichhe moved; but he dreaded, vaguely to be sure, her hearing, in a grossway, references to his life before she entered it. So quite frankly anda bit sketchily he confided it to her himself. 

"Of course that is ended forever, " he said; "you have led me fromdarkness to light, you wonderful child! Why, Merry, you simply have madea new and better man of me--I understand the real value of things now. "

But did he?

Merry was looking at him as if she were doubting her senses. Things shehad heard in her girlhood, things that floated about in the dark cornersof her memory, were pressing close. Dreadful things that had been forcedupon her against her will but which she reasoned could never happen toher, or to any of her own. 

"You mean, " she faltered gropingly at last, "that another woman has----"She could not voice the ugly words and Thornton was obliged to be alittle more explicit. 

Then he saw his wife retreat--spiritually. He hastened after her as besthe could. 

"You see, darling, " he was frightened, "out here, where a fellow is cutoff from home ties and all that, the old code does not hold--how couldit? I'm no exception. Why, good Lord! child----" but Meredith was notlistening. He saw that and it angered him. 

She was hearing words spoken long ago--oh! years and years ago itseemed. Words that had lured her from Doris, from safety, from all thedangerous peace that had been hers. 

"Sweetheart, " that voice had said, "there is one right woman for everyman, but few there be who find her. When one does--then there is no timeto be lost. Life is all too short at the best for them. Come, mybeloved, come!"

And she had heeded and, forsaking all else, had trusted him. 

According to his lights Thornton had sincerely meant those words when hespoke them. He was under the spell, still, as he looked at the smallfrozen thing before him now. 

If he could win her from her absurd, and almost unbelievable, position;if he could, through her love and his, gain her absolutely; make her_his_--what a conquest!

"My precious one, I am yours to do with what you will!" he was sayingwith all the fervour of his being; but Meredith looked at him from agreat distance. 

"You were never mine!" was what she said. Then asked:

"Is that--that woman here? Will I ever--meet her?"

Thornton was growing furiously angry. 

"Certainly not!" he replied to her last question, incensed at theimplied lack of delicacy on his part. Then he added, "Don't be a fool, Merry!"

"No, I won't, " she whispered, grimly. "I won't be a fool, whatever elseI am. Do you want me to leave you at once, or stay on?"

Thornton stared at her blankly. 

"Good God!" he muttered; "what do you mean, stay on?"

"I mean that if I stay it will be because I don't want to hurt you morethan I must--and because things don't matter much, either way. I have myown money--but, well, I'll stay on if it will help you in yourbusiness. "

Then light dawned. 

"You will stay on!" Thornton snapped the words out. "You are my wife, and you will stay on!"

"Very well. I will stay, " Meredith turned and walked away. 

Thornton looked after her and his face softened. Something in him wastouched by the spirit under the cold, crude exterior of the girl. It wasworth while--he would try to win her!

And that was the best hour in Thornton's life. 

Could he have held to it all might have gone well, but Thornton'ssuccesses had been due to dash and daring--the slow, patient method wasnot his, and against his wife's stern indifference he recoiled after ashort time--she bored him; she no longer seemed worth while; not worththe struggle nor the holding to absurd and rigid demands. Still, by hersmiling acquiescence, Meredith made things possible that otherwise mightnot have been so, and she was a charming hostess when occasion demanded. 

During the second bleak year of their marriage Meredith accompaniedThornton to England--he was often obliged to go there on prolongedbusiness--but she never repeated the experiment. 

While it was comparatively easy to play her difficult r�le in her home, it was unbearable among her husband's people, who complicated matters byassuming that she must, of necessity, be honoured and uplifted by thealliance she had made. 

After the return from England Thornton abandoned his puritanical lifeand returned to the easy ways of his bachelor days. 

Meredith knew perfectly well what was going on, but she had her ownincome and lived her own detached and barren life, so she clung to whatseemed to her the last shred of duty she owed to her marriage ties--sheserved in her husband's home as hostess, and by her mere presence sheavoided betraying him to the scorn of those who could not know all, andso might not judge justly. 

Then the crisis came that shocked Meredith into consciousness and forcedher to act, for the first time in her life, independently. 

Thornton was about to go, again, to England. The day before he sailed hecame into his wife's sitting room, where she lay upon a couch, sufferingfrom a severe headache. 

She never mentioned her pain or loneliness, and to Thornton's carelessglance she appeared as she always did--pale, cold, and self-centred. 

"Well, I sail at noon to-morrow!" he said, seating himself astride achair, folding his arms and settling his chin on them. 

"Yes? Is there anything particular that you want me to look after inyour absence?"

Meredith barely raised her eyes. Her pain was intense, but Thornton sawonly indifference and an unconscious insolence in the words, tone, andlanguid glance. 

Never before in his life had he been balked and defied and resented ashe was by the pretty creature before him. The devil rose in him--andgenerally Thornton rode his devil with courage and control, butsuddenly it reared, and he was thrown!

"Do you know, " he said--and he looked handsome and powerful in his whiteclothes; he was splendidly correct in every detail--"there are timeswhen I think you forget that you are my wife. "

"I try to. " Like all quiet people Meredith could shatter one's poise attimes by her daring. She looked so small and defiant as she laythere--so secure!

"Suppose I commanded you to come with me to-morrow? Made my rightfuldemand after this hellish year--what would you do?"

Thornton's chin projected; his mouth smiled, not pleasantly, and hiseyes held Meredith's with a light that frightened her. She sat up. 

"Of course I should refuse to go with you, " she replied, "and I do notacknowledge any rights of yours except those that I give you. Youapparently overlook the fact that--I make no claims. "

"Claims?" Thornton laughed, and the sound had a dangerous note thatstartled Meredith. "Claims? Good Lord! That's quaintly delicious. Youdon't know men, my dear. It would be a deed of charity to--inform you. Claims, indeed! You drove me, when you might have held me, and you talkclaims. "

"I did not want to hold you--after I knew that you had never really beenmine. " Meredith's words were shaken by an emotion beyond Thornton'scomprehension; they further aroused the brute in him. 

"This comes of locks and bars!" he sneered, recalling Doris'sexpression, "but, damn it all, unless you were more fool than most girlsyou might have saved yourself. "

To this Meredith made no reply, but she crouched on the couch andgathered her knees in her arms as if clinging to the only support at herdisposal. 

"See here!" Thornton bent forward and his eyes blazed. "I'm going togive you a last chance. You'll come with me to-morrow and have done withthis infernal rot or I'll take the woman with me who has made lifepossible, in the past, for you and me. What do you say?"

Horror and repulsion grew in Meredith's eyes. She went deadly white andstretched her hands wide as if shielding herself from somethingdefiling. 

"Go!" she gasped. "Go with her! By so doing I will not have to explain;I will be free to return--to Doris. "

"So!" And now Thornton got up and paced the floor; "having foreswornevery duty you owe me, having driven me to what you choose to callwrong, you pack your nice, clean little soul in your bag and go back topose as--as--what in God's name will you pose as? You!"

Meredith shrank back. She was conscious now of her danger. 

"Well, then!" Thornton came close and laughed down upon the shrinkingform--her terror further roused the brute in him; all that was decentand fine in him--and both were there--fell into darkness; "you'll pay, by heaven! before you go. You'll--"

"Leave me alone!" Meredith sprang to her feet. "How dare you?"

And again Thornton laughed. 

"Dare? You--you little idiot! You'll come with me to-morrow--by God!"

 * * * * *

But Meredith did not go with Thornton on the morrow, and if the othertook her place she did not seek to know. 

The weeks and months dragged on and she was thankful for time to thinkand plot. It took so much time for one who had never acted before. Andthen--she knew the worst!

Thornton might return at any time and soon--her child would be born!First terror, then a growing calmness, possessed Meredith. She forgotThornton in her planning, forgot her own misery and sense of wrong. Shedid not hate her child as she might have--she learned in the end toconsider it as the one opportunity left to her of saving whatever wasgood in her and Thornton. She clung to that good, she was just, at last, to Thornton as well as herself. Both he and she were victims ofignorance--the little coming child must be saved from that ignorance;the father's and--yes, her own, for Meredith was convinced that shewould not live through her ordeal. 

Thornton must not have the child--he was unfit for that sacred duty ofgiving it the chance that had been denied the parents. The new life musthave its roots in cleaner and purer soil. Doris must save it. Doris!

Then Meredith wrote three notes. One was to Sister Angela:

 You remember how, as a little girl, you let me come to you and tell you things that I could not tell even to God? I am coming now, Sister--will be there soon after this reaches you; and then--I will tell you!

 I want my child to be born with you and Doris near me. I have written to Doris. 

 And whether I live or die, my husband must not have my child. You must help me. 

The second letter was longer, for it contained explanations and reasons. These were stated baldly, briefly, but for that very quality they rangluridly dramatic. 

The third note was left on Thornton's desk and simply informed him thatshe was going to Doris and would never return. 

CHAPTER II

"_Minds that sway the future like a tide. _"

Sister Angela read her letter sitting before the fire in the living roomat Ridge House. 

She read it over and over and then, as was common with her, she claspedthe cross that hung from her girdle--and opened her soul. She called itprayer. Meredith became personally near her--the written words hadmaterialized her. With the clairvoyance that had been part of herequipment in dealing with people and events of the past, Angela beganslowly to understand. 

So actually was she possessed by reality that her face grew grim anddeadly pale. She was a woman of experience in the worldly sense, but shewas unyielding in her spiritual interpretation of moral codes. She feltthe full weight of the tragedy that had overwhelmed a girl of MeredithThornton's type. She had no inclination, nor was there time now, toconsider Thornton's side of this terrible condition. She must act forMeredith and Meredith's child. 

Folding the letter, she dropped it into her pocket and sent for SisterJanice, the housekeeper. 

Angela gave silent thanks for Janice's temperament. 

Janice was so cheerful as often to depress others; so grateful that shegloried in self-abnegation and had no curiosity outside a given command. 

"The house must be got ready for visitors, " Angela informed Janice. "Twoformer pupils--and one of them is ill. " When she said this Angelapaused. How did she know Meredith was ill?

"Shall I open the west wing?" asked Janice, alert as to her duties. 

"Open everything. Have the place at its best; but I would like theyounger sister, Mrs. Thornton, to have the chamber on the south, theguest chamber. "

When Janice had departed, Sister Constance appeared. 

In her early days Constance had been a famous nurse and for yearsafterward the head of a school for nurses. Her eyes brightened now asshe listened to her superior. She had long chafed under the strain ofinaction. She listened and nodded. 

"Everything shall be done as you wish, Sister, " she said at last, andAngela knew that it would be. 

Lastly, old Jed was called from his outside duties and stood, batteredhat in hand, to receive his commands. Jed was old and black and his woolwas white as snow; his strong, perfect teeth glittered with goldfillings. How the old man had fallen to this vanity no one knew, butsooner or later all the money he made was converted into fillings. 

"They do say, " he once explained to Sister Angela, "that 'tain't allgold as glitters, but dis year yaller in my mouth, ma'am, is right suregold an' it's like layin' up treasure in heaven, for no moth nor rustain't ever going to distroy anythin' in my mouth. No, ma'am! Nocorruption, nuther. "

Jed, listening to Sister Angela, now, was beaming and shining. 

"I want you to go to Stone Hedgeton to-morrow, Uncle Jed. You betterstart early. You must meet every train until you see a young lady--shewill be looking about for someone--and bring her here. In between trainsmake yourself and the horses comfortable at the tavern. I'm glad you donot drink, Jed. "

"Yes-m, " pondered Jed, "but I 'spect there might be mo' dan one younglady. I reckon it would be disastering if I fotched the wrong one. Isn'tthar something 'bout her discounterments as might be leading, as yo'might say, ma'am?"

"Jed, I rely upon you to bring the right young lady!"

There was no use of further arguing. Jed shuffled off. 

Alone, of all the household, little Mary Allan was not taken into SisterAngela's confidence, and this was unfortunate, for Mary ran well inharness, but was apt to go a bit wild if left to her own devices. What people did not confide to Mary she generally found out for herself. 

Mary was known to Silver Gap as the "last of them Allans. " Her fatherand mother both died soon after Mary showed signs of persisting--her tenbrothers and sisters had refused to live, and when Mary was left to herfate Sister Angela rescued her, and the girl had been trained forentrance into a Sisterhood later on. 

She was abnormally keen but discouragingly superstitious; she had moodswhen the Sisters believed they had overcome her inheritance of reticenceand aloofness. She would laugh and chat gaily and appear charminglyyoung and happy, but without warning she would lapse back to the almostsullen, suspicious attitude that was so disconcerting. Sister Angelademanded justice for Mary and received, in return, a kind of loyaltythat was the best the girl had to give. 

She regarded, with that strange interpretation of the lonely hills, alloutsiders as foreigners. She was receiving benefits from them, her onlychance of life, and while she blindly repaid in services, Mary's rootsclung to the cabin life; her affections to the fast-decaying hovel fromwhich she had been rescued. 

Jed was the only familiar creature left to Mary's inner consciousness. He belonged to the hills--if not of them, and while his birthright madeit possible for him to assimilate, he shared with Mary the feeling thathe was among strangers. 

Jed thought in strains of "quality"; Mary in terms of "outlanders. " Butboth served loyally. 

The morning that Jed was to start on his mysterious errand--and hegloried in the mystery--Mary was "minding" bread in the kitchen and"chuncking" wood in the stove with a lavish hand. The Sisters were atprayer in the tiny chapel which had been evolved from a small west room;and old Aunt Becky Adams was plodding down the rugged trail from ThunderPeak. Meredith Thornton, too, was nearing her destination and The Shipwas on The Rock. 

Presently Mary, having tested the state of the golden-brown ovals in theoven--and she could do it to a nicety--came out of the kitchen, followed by a delicious smell of crisping wheat, and sat down upon thestep of the porch to watch Jed polishing the harness of Washington andLincoln--the grave, reliable team upon whom Jed spared no toil. 

Mary looked very brief and slim in her scanty blue cotton frock and theapron far too large for her. The hair, tidily caught in a firm littleknot, was making brave efforts to escape in wild little curls, and thegirl's big eyes had the expression seen in the eyes of an animal thathas been trapped but not conquered. 

"Uncle Jed, " she said in an awed tone, and planting her sharp elbows onher knees in order to prop her serious face, "The Ship is on The Rock. "

All the morning Jed had been trying to keep his back to the fact. 

"Yo' sure is one triflin' child, " he muttered. 

"All the same, The Ship is there, Uncle Jed, and that means thatsomething is going to happen. It is going to happen long o' RidgeHouse--and nothing has happened here before. Things have just goneon--and--on and on----"

The girl's voice trailed vaguely--she was looking at The Ship. 

Jed began to have that sensation described by him as "shivers in thespine of his back. " Mary was fascinating him. Suddenly she asked:

"Uncle Jed, what are they-all sending you to--fetch?" Mary almost said"fotch. "

"How you know, child, I is goin' to fotch--anything?" Jed's spine wasaffecting his moral fibre. 

Mary gave her elfish laugh. She rarely smiled, and her laugh was a meresound--not harsh, but mirthless. 

"I _know!_" she said, "and it came--no matter what it is on The Ship, and I 'low it will go--on The Ship. "

"Gawd A'mighty!" Jed burst out, "you make me creep like I had pneumoniafever. " With this Jed turned to The Rock and confronted The Ship. 

"Gawd!" he murmured, "I sho' am anxious and trubbled. "

Then he turned, mounted the step of the creaky carriage, and gave hiswhip that peculiar twist that only a born master of horses ever can. 

It was like Jed to do that which he was ordained to do promptly. 

Mary watched him out of sight and then went indoors. She was depressedand nervous; her keen ear had heard much not intended for her to hear, but not enough to control the imagination that was fired bysuperstition. 

"A happening" was looming near. Something grave threatened. The evilcrew of The Ship was but biding its time to strike, and Mary thrilledand feared at once. 

The bread, as Mary sniffed, was ready to be taken from the oven. Thefirst loaf was poised nicely on the girl's towel-covered hand when adark, bent old woman drifted, rather than walked, into the sunnykitchen. She came noiselessly like a shadow; she was dirty and in rags;she looked, all but her eyes, as if she might be a hundred years old, but her eyes held so much fire and undying youth that they were terribleset in the crinkled, rust-coloured face. 

"I want her!" The words, spoken close to her shoulder caused Mary todrop the loaf and turn in affright. 

"I want--her!"

"Gawd! Aunt Becky!" gasped Mary, dropping, like a cloak, the thin veneerof all that Ridge House had done for her. "Gawd! Aunt Becky, I donethought you was--dead and all. I ain't seen you in ages. Won't you set?"

The woman stretched a claw-like hand forth and laid it on the shoulderof the girl. 

"Don't you argify with me--Mary Allan. I want her. "

There seemed to be no doubt in Mary's mind as to whom Aunt Becky wanted. 

"Sister Angela is at prayer, Aunt Becky, " she whispered, trying toescape from the clutch upon her shoulder. 

"Mary Allan--go tell her I want her. Go!" There was that in Becky's tonethat commanded obedience. Mary started to the hall, her feet clatteringas she ran toward the chapel on the floor above. 

Becky followed, more slowly. She got as far as the opened door of theliving room, then she paused, glanced about, and went in. 

There are some rooms that repel; others that seem to rush forward withwarm welcome. The living room at Ridge House was one that made astranger feel as if he had long been expected and desired. It was notunfamiliar to the old woman who now entered it. Through the windows shehad often held silent and unsuspected vigil. It was her way to know thetrails over which she might be called to travel and since that day, three years before, when Sister Angela had met her on the road and madeher startling proposition, Becky had subconsciously known that, in duetime, she would be compelled to accept what then she had so angrilyrefused. 

On that first encounter Sister Angela had said:

"They tell me that you have a little granddaughter--a very prettychild. "

"Yo' mean Zalie?" Becky was on her guard. 

"I did not know her name. How old is she?"

"Nigh onter fifteen. " The strange eyes were holding Sister Angela's calmgaze--the old woman was awaiting the time to spring. 

"It is wrong to keep a young girl on that lonely peak away fromeveryone, as I am told that you do. Won't you let her come to RidgeHouse? We will teach her--fit her for some useful work. "

Sister Angela at that time did not know her neighbours as well as shelater learned to know them. Becky came nearer, and her thin lips curledback from her toothless jaws. 

"You-all keep yo' hands off Zalie an' me! I kin larn my gal all sheneeds to know. All other larnin' would harm her, and no Popish folkain't going to tech what's mine. "

So that was what kept them apart!

Sister Angela drew back. For a moment she did not understand; then shesmiled and bent nearer. 

"You think us Catholics? We are not; but if we were it would be just thesame. We are friendly women who really want to be neighbourly andhelpful. "

"You all tote a cross!" Becky was interested. 

"Yes. We bear the cross--it is a symbol of what we try to do--you neednot be afraid of us, and if there is ever a time when you need us--cometo Ridge House. "

After that Becky had apparently disappeared, but often and often whenthe night was stormy, or dark, she had walked stealthily down the trailand taken her place by the windows of Ridge House. She knew the sunny, orderly kitchen in which such strange food was prepared; she knew thelong, narrow dining room with its quaint carvings and painted words onwalls and fireplace; she knew the tiny room where the Sisters knelt andsang. One or two of the tunes ran in Becky's brain like hauntingundercurrents; but best of all, Becky knew the living room upon whosegenerous hearth the fire burned from early autumn until the bloom ofdogwood, azalea, and laurel filled the space from which the ashes werereluctantly swept. Every rug and chair and couch was familiar to theburning eyes. The rows of bookshelves, the long, narrow table and--ThePicture on the Wall!

To that picture Becky went now. She had never been able to see itdistinctly from any window. It was the Good Shepherd. The noble, patientface bent over the child on the man's breast had power to still Becky'sdistraught mind. She could not understand, but a groping of that part ofher that could still feel and suffer reached the underlying suggestionof the artist. Here was someone who was doing what, in a vague andbungling way, Becky herself had always wanted to do--shield the young, helpless thing that belonged to her. 

The old face twitched and the soiled, crinkled arms--so empty andyearning--hugged the trembling body. And so Sister Angela found her. 

The three years since Angela had seen Becky Adams had taught her much ofher people--she called them _her_ people, now. 

"I am so glad to see you, Aunt Becky, " she said, smiling and pointing toa chair by the hearth, quite in an easy way. "Are you tired after yourlong walk?"

"Sorter. " Becky came over to the chair and sank into it. Then she saidabruptly: "Zalie's gone!"

The brief statement had power to visualize the young creature as Angelahad once seen her: pretty as the flower whose name she bore, a littleshy thing with hungry, half-afraid eyes. 

"Is she--dead?" Sister Angela's gaze grew deep and sympathetic. 

"Not 'zactly--not daid--jes now. " Poor Becky, breaking through her ownreserve and agony, made a pitiful appeal. 

"She has--gone away? With whom?" Sister Angela began to comprehend andshe lowered her voice, bending toward Becky. 

"She ain't gone with any one--she didn't have ter--but she'll fotch upwith someone fore long. She's gone to larn--she got the call, same asall her kin--it's the curse!"

Now that the wall of reserve was down the pent waters rushed through andthey came on the fanciful, dramatic words peculiar to Becky and herkind. Angela did not interrupt--she waited while the old, stifled voiceran on:

"I had to larn, and I went far and saw sights, and when it was larned Icum back, with Zalie's mother rolled up like she was a bundle. The oldcabin was empty 'cept for wild things as found shelter there--me and hersettled down and no one found out for some time, and then it didn'tmatter!

"Zalie's mother, she had to larn and she went with a man as helped herlarn powerful quick. He don killed my gal by his ways an' he left her todie. It was a stranger as brought Zalie to me, and then I set myself tothe task of keeping her from the curse--but she got the call and shewent! I can see her"--here the strange eyes looked as the eyes of a seerlook--they were following the girl on the "larnin' way"; the tired voicetrailed sadly--"I can see how she went. It was nearing morning and allthe moonlight that the night had left was piled like mist down in theGap. Her head was up and she had her hands out--sorter feelin', feelin', and she would laugh--oh! she would laugh--and then she'd catch thescent, and be off! Oh! my Gawd, my Gawd!"

Becky swayed back and forth and moaned softly as one does who hasemptied his soul and waits. 

Sister Angela got up and bent over the old woman, her thin white hand onthe crouching back. 

"When did this happen?" she asked. 

"Mos' a year back!"

"And you have only come now to tell me? Why did you wait?"

"Twasn't no use coming before--but now, I 'low she's coming back, sameas all us does, after the larnin'! I had a vision las' night--and thismorning--I saw The Ship on the Rock--she'll come!"

Again the old woman's eyes were lifted and she peered into the depths ofthe fire. 

"I seed Zalie las' night! She come with hit. "

"With what?" Sister Angela had that peculiar pricking sensation of theskin caused by tense nerves. 

"With hit. Her young-un! That's what larnin' means to us-all. Hit! Afterthat, nothin' counts one way or 'other. Zalie spoke in her vision--clearlike she was in the flesh. She don made me understand that I mus' givehit a chance; break the curse--there is only one way!"

"What way, Becky?" Angela was whispering as if she and the old womannear her were conspiring together. 

"Hit mus' go where no one knows--no one ever can know. It's the knowin'that damns us-all. Folks knowin' an' expectin'--an' helpin' the curse. Hit's got to start fresh an' no one knowin'. "

Becky's voice was sepulchral. 

"You mean, " Angela asked, "that if Zalie comes back with a child thatyou want me to take it, find a home for it--where no one will everknow?"

"You-all don promised to help me, " Becky pleaded, for she caught thedoubting tone in Angela's voice; "you-all ain't goin' back on that, airyo'?"

The burning eyes fell upon the cross at Angela's side. 

"No, " she said. "No. Becky, I promise to help you. But suppose Zalie, should she have a child, refused to give it up?"

Becky's face quivered. 

"She won't las', Zalie won't. " The stricken voice was as confident as ifZalie already lay dead. "Zalie ain't got stayin' powers, she ain't. Shedon have fever an' what-all--an' she won't las' long--she'll go on TheShip! But if you-all hide hit--so The Ship can't take hit--if you-allgive hit hit's chance--then the curse will be broke. "

There was pleading, renunciation, and command in the guttural voice:

"Becky, I will promise to help you. If there is a child and you renounceall claim to it, I will find a home for it. It shall have its chance. And now sit here and rest--I am going to bring some food to you. "

Sister Angela arose and passed from the room. The doing of the kindly, commonplace thing restored her to her usual calm. 

She was not gone long, but when she returned, bearing the tray, Beckyhad departed and the chair in which she had sat was still swaying. 

CHAPTER III

"_I brushed all obstructions from my doorsill and stepped into theroad. _"

It was just after sunset the following day when Jed turned from the BigRoad into the River Road and thanked God that the next five miles couldbe made before early darkness set in. 

Beside him sat Meredith Thornton, white lipped and wide-eyed, and heraristocratic bags rattled around in the space behind. 

The smile with which Meredith had faced her past three years lingeredstill on the set mouth--the smile was for Jed. 

"There seem to be more downs than ups on this road, " the girl said, inorder to cover a groan. "It will be awful after dark. "

"Dark or light, ma'am, " Jed returned, "it's all the same to me, ma'am. Iknow dese little ole humps like I know my fingers and toes, ma'am. "

"Do--do you always hit the same humps?" Jed was hitting one now, squarely. 

"Mostly, ma'am; but I'm studyin' to get there before dark, ma'am. IfWashington now, ma'am"--Jed indicated the sleeker of the twohorses--"had the ginger, so to speak, ma'am, as Lincoln has got--why, ma'am, the River Road would be flyin' out behind, ma'am, like it war atail of a kite. "

Meredith managed to give a weak laugh and, as the wagon hit anotherhump, she edged toward Jed. After a few moments he felt her head againsthis shoulder--from suffering and exhaustion she fell into a brief andtroubled sleep. 

Like one carved from rock, Jed held his position while a reverentexpression grew upon his face. 

The glow showed yellow through the western sky, The Gap was growingpurplish and dim, and just then, across a foot bridge over the river, ahurrying, bent form appeared. It swayed perilously--Jed heard a mutteredcurse. 

"Gawd A'mighty, " he breathed, "it's ole Aunt Becky come back to add totrubble after us-all hopin' she was daid--or something. "

Becky was coming toward the road, bending over the bundle she bore; shepaused, looked down, and then darted ahead right in the path of thehorses. They reared and something snapped. 

Meredith awoke and sat up with a cry. 

"What is the matter?" she asked. "An accident?"

"'Tain't nothin' so bad as an accident, ma'am, " Jed reassured her, "butI don't take no chances with Lincoln's hind hoofs, ma'am, an' somethin'done cracked in dat quarter. "

The pause gave Aunt Becky time to reach Ridge House and play her part inthe scheme of things. 

Panting and well nigh exhausted, the old woman staggered on and wasthankful to see at her journey's end that but one light shone in thequiet house. The light was in the living room where Angela sat alonewaiting for Meredith Thornton. She had quite forgotten, in her growinglyanxious hours, all about poor Becky and her sorrows. So now, when thelong window, opening on the west porch, swayed inward, she started upwith outstretched arms--and confronted Becky. 

"I've brung hit!" Becky staggered to a chair, uninvited, and sat downwith her burden, wrapped in a dirty, old quilt, upon her knees. 

Angela sat down also--she was speechless and frightened. She watched theold woman unfold the coverings, and she saw the form of a sleepingnew-born baby exposed to the heat and light of the fire. She tried tosay something, to get control of herself, but she only succeeded inbending nearer the apparition. 

"Zalie she cum las' night like I told you she would. She's daidnow--Zalie is. I don buried her at sun-up--an' I want it tole--if itever is tole--that the child was buried long o' Zalie. She done plannedwhile she was a-dying. 

"I told her what you-all promised an' she went real content-like afterthat. "

There was sodden despair in Becky's voice. 

"Who--is the father of this child?"

The commonplace question, under the strain, sounded trivial--but it wasrung from Angela's dismay. 

Becky gave a rough laugh. 

"Not the agony o' death an' the fear o' hell could wring that out ofZalie, " she said. Then: "Yo' ain't goin' back on yo' promise, are yo'?"

Sister Angela rallied. At any moment the wheels on the road might endher time for considering poor Becky. 

"You mean, " she whispered, "that you renounce--this child; give it tome, now? You mean--that I must find a home for it?"

"Yo' done promised--an' it eased Zalie at the end. "

Angela reached for the child--she was calm and self-possessed at last. This was not the first child she had rescued. 

"It is--a girl?" she asked, lifting the tiny form. 

"Hit's a girl. Give hit a chance. "

"I will. " Then Angela wrapped the child in the old quilt and turnedtoward the door. 

"Will you wait until I return?" she paused to ask, but Becky, her eyeson that picture of the Good Shepherd, replied:

"No--I don let go!"

With that she passed as noiselessly from the room as if she were but ashadow sinking into the darkness outside. 

Angela went upstairs and knocked at Sister Constance's door. SisterConstance was alert at once. Every faculty of hers was trained torespond intelligently to taps on the door in the middle of the night. 

"This is--a child--a mountain child, " whispered Sister Angela. "It hasbeen left here. Take it into the west wing and tell no one of itspresence until we know whether it will be claimed!"

"Very well, Sister. " Constance folded the child to her ample breast; thematernal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. Thebaby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague, sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response hadappealed to it. 

Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the doorof the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. SisterAngela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that madethe happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against adead blur of sensation. 

There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense. 

Meredith was in her arms--clinging, sobbing, and repeating:

"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"

"I promise, my darling. I promise. " Angela heard herself saying thewords as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger. 

"Has Doris come?"

"Not yet. She will be here soon. "

"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now--I let go!"

Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirlingthrough her brain as if on a mighty wheel. 

"I have--let go!"

Then followed terrible hours in the guest chamber with Sister Constancerepeating over and over: "It is a perfectly plain case. All is well. "

Finally, there was quiet, and then that cry that has power to move theworld's heart, a plaintive wail weighted with relinquishmentand--acceptance. Meredith's little daughter was born just as the clockbelow chimed four. 

"I will take it to the west wing, " Constance said. "Call me if you needme. "

But everything seemed settling into calm, and Meredith fell asleeplooking as she used to look in the old days before she had been forcedoutside the gates. At daylight she opened her eyes. 

"Is it morning?" she asked of Sister Angela who sat beside her. 

"Yes, dear heart. "

"Raise the shade, Sister. " Then, as Angela raised it--"Why, how strange!What is that, Sister?"

Angela looked and saw The Ship! In that hour when vitality runs low andwith the past horrors of the night still holding her, all thesuperstition of The Gap claimed her. 

"I--I was afraid I would lose the ship. " Meredith's mind wandered backto her hurried home-leaving; the dread that the ship that was to bearher from the Philippines might have gone. The mystic Ship upon The Rockwas all that was needed to fix her fancy. 

"But--I was in time. I _am_ in time. The Ship--is waiting. Everything isall right now!--quite all right, Sister?"

Angela went close to the bed. 

"My dear one!" she whispered and slipped her arm under Meredith's head. 

"It all seems so--plain in the morning, Sister. It is the night thatmakes us afraid. The night! I cannot remember--what it was--I dreamed. "

"Never mind, little girl"--Angela's tears were dropping on the soft, smooth hair that was growing clammy; she felt the cold breath on herface--"never mind, little girl, the dream is past. "

"Sister, it was a bad dream. I do not like bad dreams--tell Doris--whatis it that I want you to tell Doris?"

"Try to sleep, beloved. " Angela knelt. 

Meredith slipped back to her childhood--she gave a short, hurting laugh. "Tell her--tell Doris--I did try to learn my lesson--but----"

It was the opening of the door that startled Angela into consciousness. Doris Fletcher stood within the room. Her eyes took in the scene, thepretty face against Sister Angela's bosom; the sunlight lying fullacross the bed and picking out into a gleam the golden cross that hungto the floor. 

"I'm too--late!"

Agony rang in the quiet words. 

"And I've travelled day and night! Her letter was forwarded to me. "

The letter burned against Doris's bosom like a tangible thing. Shecrossed the room and sank beside the bed. 

They all slipped through the following days as people do who realizethat troubles do not come to them, but are overtaken on the way. Theyseemed always to have been there; some people pass on the other side, but if one's path lies close, then one must go with what couragepossible--look hard, feel and groan with the understanding, and pass onas best he can bearing the memory with him. 

Father Noble came from many miles back in the hills. Riding his sturdylittle horse, his loose black cloak floating like benignant wingsbearing him on; his radiant old face shining even in the face of death. 

He stayed until the wound in the hillside was covered over Meredith'slittle form; stayed to see the flowers hide the scar, murmuring againand again: "In the hope of joyful resurrection. " His was the task tobridge life and death, and there was no doubt in his beautiful soul. 

"And now, " he said, after four days, "I must go to Cleaver'sClearing"--the Clearing was twenty hard miles away. "There are childrenthere who never heard of God until I took some toys to them lastChristmas. Then they thought that I was God. They are sick now, poorchildren--bad food; no care--ah! well, they will learn, they willlearn. "

And the old man rode away. 

And still Doris had not seen Meredith's child. 

"I cannot, Sister, " she had pleaded. "I can think of it only as GeorgeThornton's child. "

The hate in Doris's heart was so new and appalling a sensation that itfrightened her. 

She tried to think of the unseen child with the love that she felt forall children--but that one! She struggled to overcome the sickeningaversion that grew, instead of lessened, while the days dragged on. Butalways the helpless child represented nothing but passion, brutality, suffering, and disgrace. It was _not_ a child, a piteous, pleadingchild--it was the essence of Wrong made visible. 

Sister Angela was deeply concerned. The unnatural attitude called forthher old manner of authority. Sitting alone with Doris before the fire inthe living room the evening of Meredith's funeral and Father Noble'sdeparture she grew stern and commanding. 

"This will never do, my dear, " she said. "It cannot be that life hasmade of you a cruel, unjust woman. "

Doris dropped her eyes--they were wonderful eyes, her real and onlyclaim to beauty. Dusky eyes they were, with a light in them of amber. 

"How much did Merry tell you?" she asked, faintly, for the older womanlooked so frail and pure that it seemed impossible that she knew theworst. 

"My dear, she told me--nothing. Her letter said that she wanted to tellme things--things that she could not tell to God"--Angela unconsciouslytouched her cross--"but there was no time. No time. "

"There are things that women cannot tell to God, Sister. Things thatthey can only tell to some women!"

A bitterness that she could not control shook Doris's voice. She shrankfrom touching the exquisite detachment of Sister Angela by the truth, and yet she must have as much sympathy as possible and, certainly, co�peration. 

"Sister, this child should never have been born!"

The words reached where former words had failed. A flush touchedAngela's white face--it was like sunrise on snow. Then, after a pause:

"Did--Meredith--think that?" A growing sternness gave Doris hope thatshe might be saved the details that were like poison in her blood. 

"Yes. Protected by--by what is law--George Thornton----"

But Angela raised her thin, transparent hand commandingly. It was as ifshe were staying the torrents of wrong and shame that threatened todeluge all that she had gained by her life of renunciation andrepression--and yet in her clear eyes there gleamed the understanding ofthe depths. 

"May God have mercy upon--the child!" was what she said, and by thosewords she took her stand between past wrong and hope of future justice. "You must take this child, Doris, " she said. "All that you know and feelbut make the course imperative and inevitable. "

"Sister, how can I--feeling as I do?"

"Can you afford not to? Can you leave it--to such a man?"

"But, Sister, you do not know him. If I should conquer my aversion andtake the child, if I succeeded in loving it--he would bide his time andclaim it. The law that made this horrible thing possible covers hisclaim to the child. "

Angela drooped back in her chair. She looked old and beaten. 

"He must not have the child, " she murmured. "It's the only chance forthe salvation of Meredith's little girl. He _shall_ not have it!"

Doris bent toward the fire holding her cold, clasped hands to the heat. Suddenly she turned. 

"I am growing nervous, " she said, "I thought I heard someone pressingagainst the window--I thought I saw--a shadow drift outside in themoonlight. "

Angela started and sat upright. Every sense was alert--she wasremembering her promise to old Becky!

"I wish, " she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. Ihave undertaken too much. "

"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quiveringvoice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside. 

Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves againstthe house. 

"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised tofind a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more--I am tooold. "

The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect. 

Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned. 

"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble ofthe past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. Itseemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside. 

Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whencecame that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story. She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse tocorrect her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names. 

It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and shesaw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested. 

"It is strange, " Sister Angela mused, when the bare telling of the storywas over, "how the deep, cruel things in life are met by people in muchthe same way--the ignorant and the wise, when they touch the inscrutablethey let go and turn to a higher power than their own. Meredith feltthat her child's chance in life lay in a new and fresh start. Themountain woman's curse, as she termed it, could only be conquered, soshe pleaded, by giving her grandchild to those who did not know. Itamounts to the same thing. 

"Meredith is--gone; the old woman of the hills cannot last long. Iwonder, as to the children--I wonder!"

Doris's eyes were burning and her voice shook when she spoke. Her wordsand tone startled Angela. 

"Where is the--the mountain child?" she asked. 

"Upstairs, my dear. Why, Doris, you are shaking as if you had a chill. You are ill--let me call Sister Constance. "

But Doris stayed her as she rose. 

"No, no, Sister. I am only trembling because my feet are set on apossible way! I am--I am pushing things aside. Tell me, is this child agirl?"

"Yes. "

"How old is it?"

"It was born the night before Meredith's child. It survived againstgrave dangers--it had no care, really, for twenty-four hours. "

"You--you think it will live?"

"Yes. "

"Do you think--the grandmother will ever reclaim it?"

"No, my dear. She is very old. I do not know how old, but certainly shecannot last much longer. She is a strange creature, but I am confidentshe realizes all that she said. "

"And she is right--it is the only way. " Doris was now speaking more toherself than to Angela. It was as if she were arguing, seeking toconvince her conservative self before she stepped out upon a new andperilous path. 

"No one knowing! Then the start could be new. It is the knowing, expecting, and suggesting that do the harm. We may call it inheritance, but it may be that we evolve from our knowledge and fears the very thingwe would avert if we were left free. "

Sister Angela bent forward. She whispered as if she felt the necessityof secrecy. 

"What do you mean?"

"Sister, can you not see? Suppose it were possible for me to takeMerry's child without the knowledge of its inheritance from the father. Suppose this little mountain child were given its chance among peoplewho did not know. "

"The children would reveal themselves, my dear. " Angela was defending, she knew not what, but all her nature was up in arms. "It is God's way. "

"Or our bungling and lack of faith, Sister, which?"

All the weariness and hopelessness passed from Doris's face; she waseager, her eyes shone. Presently she stood up, her back to the fire, herglance on that far window that opened to the starry night and thenarrow, flower-hidden bed on the hill. 

"Sister Angela, " the words were spoken solemnly as a vow might be takenbefore God, "I am going to take--both children. But on one condition--Iam not to know which is Meredith's. "

A log rolling from the irons startled the women--their nerves werestrained to the breaking point. 

"Impossible!" gasped Angela. 

"Why?"

"Your own has claims upon you!"

"None that I am not willing to give--but this is the only way. If, asyou say, it is God's way that they reveal themselves, then I lose; ifGod is with me, I win. "

"Dare--you?"

Doris stretched her arms as if pushing aside every obstacle. 

"I do, " she said. "I am not a daring woman: I am a weak and fearfulone--this, though, I dare!"

"But the father----" Angela whispered. 

"The--father----" Doris's eyes flamed. 

"But he may, as you say, claim the child. " Angela hastened breathlesslyas one running. 

"How could he, if I did not know which child was his?"

The blinding light began to point the way clearer, now, to the olderwoman. 

"It's--unheard of, " she murmured, "and yet----"

"I will write to Thornton, offer to take his child, " Doris was pleading, rather than explaining. "I think at the first he will agree to theproposal--what else can he do? The shock--remember, he does not evenknow that a child is expected! Dare we refuse Meredith's child this onlyand desperate chance--knowing what we do?"

Angela made no reply. She was letting go one after another of her rigidbeliefs. Again Doris spoke, again she pleaded:

"I will abide by your decision, Sister, but only after you have gone tothe chapel--and seen the way. I will wait here. "

Angela rose stiffly, holding to her cross as if it were a physicalsupport. With bowed head she passed from the room and Doris sat downthinking; demanding justice. 

A half hour passed before steps were heard in the hall. Doris stood up, her eyes fixed on the door. 

Sister Angela entered, and in her arms, wrapped in the same blanket, were two sleeping babies wearing the plain clothing that Ridge Housekept in store for emergencies. Doris ran forward; she bent over thesmall creatures. 

"Which?" Nature leaped forth in that one palpitating word--it was thelast claim of blood. 

"I--forgot--when I brought them to you. We have all--forgot. It _is_ theonly way--the chance. "

Doris took both children in her arms. 

"I shall name them Joan and Nancy, " she whispered, "for my mother andgrandmother. Joan and Nancy--Thornton!"

Then she kissed them, and it was given to her at that moment to forgether bitter hatred. 

CHAPTER IV

"_Just as much of doubt as bade us plant a surer foot upon thesun-road. _"

Doris Fletcher had no turning-back in her nature. She never reached agoal but by patient effort to understand, and she was able to close hereyes to by-paths. 

Having adopted the children, having foregone her prejudices--good andevil--having set her feet upon the way, she meant to go unfalteringlyon, and because doubts would assail her at times, she held the surer toher task. 

She remained a month at Ridge House. She wrote to Thornton and in duetime his reply came. 

Apparently he had written while bewildered and shocked. The old arroganttone was gone. He accepted what Doris offered and set aside a generoussum of money for his child's expenses. 

It was Sister Angela's suggestion that Mary should become the nurse forthe children. 

"How much does she know, Sister?"

"Nothing--but what we have permitted her to know. The girl, sinceknowing of the children, has astonished me by her interest in them. Nothing before has so brought her out of her native reserve. I neversuspected it--but the girl has maternal instincts that should not bestarved. "

But Sister Angela was mistaken. Mary knew more than she had beenpermitted to know. 

A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels. Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber whichopened on the roof of the porch and were next to the window of Mary'ssmall chamber. She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound ofa baby's cry. But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to thecare of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hiddendepth of the girl's nature. It chilled her, then set her blood racinghotly. She got up and went to the window--it was moonlight in The Gapand the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and setthe leaves swirling. 

Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber. 

Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleepa little child! The sight was burned upon Mary's consciousness as ifFate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten. Mary sawthe small, puckered face. It was individual and distinct. 

She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hardthat she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her wayback. 

All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janicetook her sharply to task. 

"'Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child, " shecautioned. 

"Yes, Sister. " Mary attacked the mats!

"And a burnt loaf cries for forgiveness. "

"Yes, Sister, but the burnt loaf I will myself eat to the last crust. "

"Indeed and you shall--for the carelessness that you show. "

Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mightyfear in her heart. 

It was nearing morning of the following day--that darkest hour--when thegirl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again. 

It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief andthe play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby inher arms!

Mary gripped the shutters--she felt faint and weak. Suppose she shouldslip and fall?

And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance--bent inprayer--her cross pressed to her lips. 

All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she wouldlike to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great washer curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills;let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, andalmost eagerly replied: "I'd like it powerful. "

So Mary took her place. 

Doris Fletcher had her plans well laid. 

"I must have myself well in hand, " she said to Sister Angela, "before Igo to New York. There's the little bungalow in California where fathertook mother before Merry's birth. It happens to be vacant. I will gothere and work out my plans. "

It seemed a simple solution. The children throve from the start in thesunshine and climate; the peace and detachment acted like charms, andMary, stifling her soul's homesickness, grew stern as to face, butmarvellously tender and capable in her duties. Doris grew accustomed toher silence and reserve after a time, but she never understood Mary, although she grew to depend upon her absolutely. To friends in New York, especially to Doctor David Martin, Doris wrote often. She was neverquite sure how the impression was given that Meredith had left twins;certainly she had not said that, but she had spoken of "the children"without laying stress upon the statement, and while debating just whatexplanation she would make. After all, it was her own affair. Some dayshe would confide in David, but there were more important details toclaim her attention. 

The babies were adorable, but in neither could she trace an expressionor suggestion of Meredith. Their childish characteristics gave noclue--they were simply healthy, normal creatures full of the charm thatall childhood should have in common. And gradually, as time passed, Doris lost herself in their demanding individualities; she becameabsorbed. Joan was larger, stronger, seemed older. She had brown eyesof that sunny tint which suggest sunshine. Her hair was brown, almostfrom the first, with gold glints. She was fair, had little colour unlessthe warm glow that rose and fell so sweetly in her face could be calledcolour. Excitement brought the flush, disappointment or a chiding wordbanished it. At other times Joan had the warm, ivory-tinted skin ofhealth, not delicacy. Nancy was, from the first, frankly blonde. Shenever changed from the lovely, fair promise of her first year. She wasthe most feminine creature one could imagine; a doll brought the lightto her violet eyes. 

"She takes that rather than her milk, " Mary explained, then gravely:"She'll take her milk if I hold off the doll. "

Nature was never quite sure what to do with Joan. She changed with theyears in tint, colouring, and character, but Nancy was fair, fine, anddelicately poised from her baby days. 

Both children worshipped Doris--Auntie Dorrie, they were taught to callher--and it was amusing to watch their relations to her. To please her, to win her approval, were their highest hopes. Mary clearly preferredNancy and, for that reason, gave more attention to Joan. 

When the children were nearly two Doris wrote to David Martin:

"I am coming home. I am glad that I have always kept the house incommission; I feel that I can trust myself there now. "

And so the little family travelled east. Mary in trim uniform (and howshe silently hated it) of black, with immaculate cuffs, collars, andcap; the babies perfect in every way and Doris, herself, happier thanshe had ever been in her life--handsomer, too. Her life had developednormally around the children; she felt a wide and deep interest ineverything, and always the sense of high adventure, a daring in herrelations to the future. 

The old Fletcher house set the standard for the others down the longrow. It was brick, with heavy oak, brass-bound doors. The marble stepsand white trim were spotless and glistening and behind it lay a deepyard hidden by a tall brick wall. The house had reserved, as the familyhad, the right, once its civic duty was performed, to develop inwardlyalong its own lines. 

The three generations, in turn, had set their marks upon it. The firstFletcher had been a genial soul given to entertaining, and the diningroom, back of the drawing room, gave evidence of the old gentleman'staste. It was a stately and beautiful room and each article of furniturehad been made to fit into the space and the need by an artist. 

Doris's father was not indifferent to his father's tastes, but he was astudent at heart and had a vision as to libraries. He encroached uponthe ample space back of the house and had built an oval room throughwhose leaded panes the peach and plum trees could be seen like tracerieson the clear glass. Around the walls of this room the book shelvesranged at just the right height, and above them hung pictures thatinspired but did not obtrude. The high, carved chimney with its deep, generous hearth was a benediction. 

When Doris had come home from St. Mary's she made known a familytrait--she voiced what to her seemed an inspiration but which to thefather, at first, seemed madness. Still, he complied and spent manyhappy hours before his death in what he called "Doris's Daring. "

"I want the west wall of the library knocked out, Father, " she had said, but Mr. Fletcher only stared. 

"We can have the books and pictures in my room--my sunken room. There isenough garden to spare and we can save the roses. We'll drop down fromthe library by a shallow flight of steps; we'll have a little fountainand about a mile of nice low window seats rambling around the room. Idon't want nymphs in the fountain but dear, adorable children tossingwater at each other. 

"We must have birds in cages, and plants and pictures--it must be a roomwhere we can all take what is dearest to us--and live. "

Of course it was an expensive and daring conception, but it was carriedout by an inspired young architect, and it was Meredith who had posedfor the figures in the fountain. 

When Doris returned to New York with her children this room became thesoul of the house. 

The year after Doris's adoption of the children Sister Angela diedsuddenly. "She simply fell asleep, " Sister Constance wrote. 

After that the other Sisters could not feel happy and content in theatmosphere of antagonism that Sister Angela had partially overcome, butwith which they had no sympathy. They returned to the Middle West andentered a Sisterhood where their duties and environment were morecongenial. Ridge House reverted to the Fletcher estate and Uncle Jed wasput in charge. 

"I may use it later, " Doris explained, "or I may turn it over to FatherNoble if he ever needs it. "

What this all meant to Mary no one ever knew--she saw, now, no return toher hills, and her longing for them grew as the years passed, and hercuriosity flattened in the dull round of duties and commonplace routine. Only one emotion largely controlled her thought and that was a dumbgratitude for what she believed she was receiving. She could not agreethat her devoted service gave ample return. She was under obligation, and the feeling was blighting to the girl's independence. Work, thenecessity for work, was an accepted state of mind to poor Mary. Theluxury and consideration that were hers in her present life took fromlabour, as far as she mentally considered it, all the essentialqualities that gave her independence. She was accepting--so shereflected in that proud detached logic of the hills--from outsiders whatno mere bodily labour could repay, certainly not such service as she wasgiving. Just loving and caring for two little children!

With cautious and suspicious watchfulness through the years Maryregarded Doris Fletcher still as "foreign. " Foreign to all that was bornand bred in the girl's inheritance of mountain aristocracy, but she hadbeen touched by the justice, the unerring kindness of the woman, who, to Mary's wrong ideals, gave and gave and constantly made it impossiblefor her to make return. 

"Some day, " the girl vowed, when her manner was most grim and repelling, "some day I'll do something to pay back!" And then she grew bewilderedin the maze of wondering if the "quality" so precious to herunderstanding might not exist in all places? Might it not be?--but hereMary became lost. 

When she recalled, as less and less she did, the unlawful spying of herson the west chamber of Ridge House, she set her lips in a firm line. Shehad gone far enough on her upward way to detest the cringing, deceitfulmethods of her childhood and she sternly sought to right herself, withher burdening conscience, by putting away forever what possiblesignificance lay in the strange coming of that first and second child toRidge House. 

"Were they twins? Were--they?" But Mary always was frightened when shegot into her mental depths. 

Three or four vital and significant events marked the years interveningbetween Doris's return to New York and the day when Joan and Nancyentered womanhood. 

The first incident seemed slight in itself but proved the truth of theneed for caution when one is on a blind trail. With all her goodintentions and high hopes Doris was bewildered as to her steps. She whohad been the soul of frankness and cheerful friendliness was nowreticent and reserved. 

"It is poor Meredith's business, " friend after friend decided. Wherelittle was known, much was suspected. "The Fletchers cannot easily brook_that_ sort of thing. "

Just what that "sort" was depended upon the temperament and character ofthe person speaking. 

Then among the first to call after Doris's return was Mrs. Tweksbury, anold and valued family friend, a woman who was worth one's while to gainas friend, for she could be a desperate foe. She had formed all heropinions of Meredith Thornton's tragedy upon what she knew and lovedconcerning the girl, and what she knew nothing whatever about, concerning Thornton. 

To Mrs. Tweksbury he was a black villain who had murdered--there was noother word for it--an innocent young creature who belonged to that class(Mrs. Tweksbury was frank and clear about "class") not supposed to besubject to the coarser dealings of life. 

Mrs. Tweksbury relied absolutely upon what she termed her inheritedintuition. This was quite outside feminine intuition. The Tweksbury maleintellect had been judicial from the first, and "the constant necessityof knowing men and women, " as Mrs. Tweksbury often explained, "had leftits mark upon the family. "

"_We know!_ That is all there is to say. We know!"

So Mrs. Tweksbury "knew" all about everything when she folded Doris inher motherly arms. 

"There is no need of a word, my dear, " she said, "and you are dealingwith the whole thing superbly. Let me see the children. How fortunatethat they are twins _and_ girls! Girls may inherit from the father, butthank God! nature saves them from the developing along his line. Andbeing _twins_ certainly modifies what might otherwise be concentrated. "

Doris felt her heart beat fast. She was not prepared to confide in Mrs. Tweksbury, certainly not at present. She loved the old woman for hergood qualities, but she shrank from putting herself at the mercy of Mrs. Tweksbury's "inherited intuitions!"

So she said nothing, but sent for the children. 

Hidden deep in the old woman's heart were all the denied and suppressedyearnings of a love that had escaped fulfilment--a love that had enteredin after her marriage to a man utterly without sympathy with her, butwhich had been rigidly ignored because of the stern moral fibre thatmarked her. After the death of all those who had been concerned in hersecret romance she had taken upon herself the more or less vicariousguardianship of the son of the man she had loved and foregone. 

The boy lived with his mother's people, and Mrs. Tweksbury only visitedhim occasionally; but her proud, stern old heart knew only one undyingpassion now--her passion for children. 

When Nancy and Joan stood before her, she regarded them with almosttragic, and, at the same time, comic expression. The children werefrightened at her twitching, wrinkled face and glanced at Doris, whosmiled them into calmness. 

In Joan, Mrs. Tweksbury saw resemblance to no one she remembered, so sheconcluded she must be like the father, physically, whom they must allignore absolutely. Try as she valiantly did, the old lady felt herquick-beating heart falter before Joan's earnest, searching gaze. It wasa relief to turn to Nancy and permit her eyes to dim and soften. 

"My dear, my dear, " she said to Doris, "how like dear Merry the baby is!Just so, I recall--"

Doris's face grew strained and ashy. "Please, " she implored, "please, Aunt Emily--don't!"

"Of course, of course, my child. Very indiscreet of me--but I was takenoff my guard. " Then--"My dears, will you kiss me?" This to the childrenkeeping their courage up by clinging together. 

"No, " Joan replied in a tone entirely free from bad manners but weightedwith simple truth; "Joan likes to kiss Auntie Dorrie. " The inferencestiffened Mrs. Tweksbury and caused Doris a qualm. 

"And you?" The old lady's tone was pathetic in its appeal to Nancy--her"intuition" was at stake. 

Nancy drew nearer. She was fascinated, afraid, but guided by a strangeimpulse. "Nancy will, " she panted, "Nancy will kiss you--two times!"

Mrs. Tweksbury's breath caught in her throat--she strangled butcontrolled herself and bent as a queen might to the sweet uplifted faceat her knee. 

After that visit Doris would have had a difficult task in stemming aflood that Mrs. Tweksbury directed, having removed the dam. While shefairly grovelled, emotionally, before Nancy, the old lady defended Joanby stern insistence upon traits of nobility unsuspected by others in thechild. 

"The wretch of a father, " she mentally vowed, "shall not have the childif suggestion can prevent. "

Spiritually she fell in line with Doris, and where Mrs. Tweksbury led itwere wiser and easier to follow than to blaze new trails. 

The second event that marked a new epoch was the coming of GeorgeThornton to claim his own. 

CHAPTER V

"_And when it fails, fight as we will, we die. _"

George Thornton was a man who believed, or thought he did, in twocontrolling things in life: Intellect, and the training of intellect, byeducation and stern attention, to the task at stake. 

He had intellect and he had devoted himself to his task, that of worldlysuccess, but he had never recognized nor admitted the necessity of thespiritual in his development, and so it had failed him--and, in a deep, tragic way, he was dying. Had been dying through the years since hisdevil took the reins, in a mad hour, and rode him. 

There had been weeks and months after his leaving Meredith when his soulcried aloud to him but was smothered. He would not heed. He let businessand coarse, pleasurable excitement gain power over him, and when theylagged he drank his conscience to sleep. 

He knew the danger which lay in the last aid to deaden his pain, so herarely sought it. 

But something new had entered in--something that, in hours when he wasobliged to face facts, frightened him, and after months abroad, monthsin which he nursed his resentment against Meredith and felt his defeatwith her, he decided to do the only decent thing left for him todo--apologize and set her free. 

And then he found her note. The bald, naked statement drove all power toact for the moment from him. Close upon that shock, which he smilinglycovered, by explaining on very commonplace grounds, came Doris's letter. The purest elements and the most brutal in many natures lie close. Theydid in Thornton. Had Meredith been a wiser, a more human and lovingwoman, she might have helped Thornton to his full stature; but failinghim by her helpless insufficiency, she drove him to his shoals. 

Had she by the turn of Fortune been obliged, as many women are, to haveborne her lot though her heart broke her child might have saved her andthe man also--for Thornton had the paternal instincts, though they wereunsuspected and wholly dormant. 

Again Meredith had defeated him. What could he do with a helpless babyon his hands? What else was there to do but accept Doris's offer? And ofcourse the child was dead to him except by the cold, legal tie thatbound them together. That, Thornton grimly held to. 

He would press it, too, in his good time!

But Thornton's next few years proved to be a succession of mis-stepswith the inevitable results. 

He married the woman who could, when she had no actual hold on him, soothe and comfort--not because of his need, but her own. Once, however, she was placed in a secure position, she cast any need of his aside anddeveloped myriads of her own. 

If Thornton could not force a social position for her, then he must payfor the luxury of her exile with him. Thornton paid and paid until everyfaculty he had was strained to the snapping point. Finally he resortedto the last and most dangerous aid he had at his disposal--he drank morethan ever before; but even in his extremity he recognized his danger andalways caught himself before the worst overcame him. 

Business began to show the effect of private troubles, and then Thorntonremembered the Fletcher fortune; his child, and the possibilities ofmaking the child a link between money and a growing necessity. 

Whatever natural tie there might have been in Thornton's relations withhis child had perished. There was merely a legal one now. 

And Thornton, having explained this at great length to his wife, andfinally getting her to agree to assume a responsibility that he sworeshould never embarrass her, travelled to New York. 

It was a bright, sunny June day when he rang the bell of the Fletcherhome and was admitted, by a trim maid, to the small reception room thatwas a noncommittal link between the hall and the drawing room. 

Sitting alone in the quiet place, Thornton was conscious of a silvery_drip, drip_ of water. Sound, like smell, has a power to arouse memoryand control it. Thornton's thoughts flew back to the week he had spentin this old house with his girl wife. He recalled the sunken room andthe fountain with those wonderful figures modelled after Meredith. 

Without taking into account the years and happenings that had made himmore than a stranger to the family he got up and followed a hauntingdesire to see the room and the fountain again. 

He passed through the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders. It wasarrogant, self-assured--he hated that sort of thing. The dining room wasbetter--a fine idea as to colour and furniture; the library, too--Thornton paused and took a comprehensive glance. He liked thelibrary, and the fireplace was perfect. He made a mental note. Then hestepped down into the room with its memory-haunting fountain. He hadnever seen it in action before, and so clever was the conceit that hedrew back, fearing that the tossing sprays would reach him. Then he satdown in a deep chair, crossed his legs, smiled, and looked about. 

Here it was that Doris spent much of her time indoors. The window wasopen and a rose vine was clinging to the frame, rich in bloom. There wasa work basket on the low, velvet-cushioned seat--a child's sock lay nearit and several ridiculous toys, rigidly propped against the wall, as ifon review. Birds sang outside in the plum and peach trees and birdsinside, not realizing their bondage, answered merrily--the room wasthrobbing with life and joy and hope. Thornton smiled, not a pleasantsmile, and felt more important than he had felt in many a day; morepowerful, too. 

"Doris must be over thirty, " he mused, "and not of the marrying type. There must be a pretty big pile to back all this. " He got quickly to hisfeet, for Doris appeared just then at the doorway leading to thelibrary. She paused at the top of the stairs--there was a strip of greenvelvet carpet running down the middle of the marble steps; her whitegown came just to her ankles, and the narrow white-shod feet sanklightly into the green carpet as if it were moss. 

"I am glad to see that you have made yourself comfortable, George, " shesaid, and smiled her very finest smile. There was no hint of reproof inthe tone, but Thornton instantly wondered if it would not have beenwiser to have kept to the reception room. 

"I hope I have not intruded, " he went to the steps and held out hishand, "it _is_ home, you know, after all. "

This was meant to be conciliatory, but the appeal went astray. 

"Let us sit by the window, " Doris remarked, "the air is delightfulto-day. "

And then came the pause during which the path leading to anunderstanding must be chosen. Doris left the choosing to Thornton. Hetook the wrong one. 

"It brings so much back, " he half whispered, "so much!" He was a fairlygood actor, but Doris was not appreciative. 

"So much that had better be left where it rests, " she said. "I havelearned that the present needs every energy--the past can take care ofitself. "

"You have had the real burden. " Thornton meant to be magnanimous. "Ishall always be grateful for your splendid help at a time when so muchwas at stake. Your goodness to my child----" For a moment Thorntoncould not think whether the child was a girl or a boy. He was confusedand a bit alarmed. 

Doris came to his assistance. 

"Meredith's little girl was all that made the first bitter year possiblefor me. I have done my best, George, my happiest best--she is lovely;the most joyous thing you can imagine. Remembering how much Meredith andI needed each other, I adopted a child at the same time I undertook thecare of your baby--the two are inseparable and wonderfully congenial. "

Thornton's brow clouded. He could not have described his sensations, butthey were similar to those he had once experienced, standing alone in adense Philippine thicket, and suddenly recalling that he was not popularwith the natives. He sensed a menace somewhere. 

"You're quite remarkable, Doris, " he said, "but was it altogetherwise--the adoption, I mean? I suppose you know everything about the--thechild, but even so, the break now will be difficult for--for everybody. "

Doris gave him a long, steady look. 

"I know very little about the child I adopted, " she said. "The poor waifwas deserted, and as to the wrench now, why, life has taught me, also, George, to take what joy one can and be willing to pay for it. We cannotafford to let a great blessing slip because we may have to do without itbye and bye. "

"But--inheritance, Doris! You, of all women, to undervalue that! It wasa bit risky, but of course while children are so young----" Thorntonpaused and Doris broke in. 

"Inheritance is such a tricky thing, " she said, looking out into theflower-filled garden, "it is such a clever masquerader. Often it is likethose insects that take upon themselves the colour of the leaf uponwhich they cling. It isn't what it seems, and when one reallyknows--why, one can hardly be just, because of the injustice ofinheritance. "

"Queer reasoning, " muttered Thornton. "Why, that--kid's father mightbe---- well, anything!" Why he said "father" would be hard to tell. 

"Exactly!" agreed Doris. "But when I did not know, I could be fair andunhampered. It has paid--the child is adorable. "

"Shows no--no--evil tendencies?" Thornton grew more and more restive. 

"On the contrary--only divine ones. "

"We're all lucky. " The man sighed, then spoke hurriedly: "I'd like tosee my little girl. She is here--of course?"

"Oh! yes. I have never been separated from her. I suppose--you meanto----" Doris paused. 

"I mean to relieve you, Doris, and assume my responsibility--now that Idare. "

"Your wife--is she willing?" Doris longed to say "worthy" but she knewthat the woman was not. 

"More than willing. " And now Thornton thought that the worst was over. 

"I will bring your little girl, " Doris said, and went quietly from theroom. 

Something of the sweetness and strength of the place seemed to go withher. Again Thornton became restless, and it came back to him that hisfirst aversion to Doris Fletcher was connected with this power of hersto overturn, without effort, his peace of mind and self-esteem. But hehad outwitted her in marrying her sister--she had antagonized him but hehad won then and would win again now! The fountain irritated and annoyedhim. He got up and walked about the room. 

"A devilish freakish conception, " he muttered, gazing at the fountainand kicking at a rare rug on the floor, "a kind of madness runs throughthe breed, I wager. Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the humansystem. " And then he listened. 

There were childish voices nearing: sweet, piping voices with littlegurgles of laughter rippling through. The laugh of happy, healthychildhood. 

"She's bringing them both!" thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came tohis brow. He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, except that they were noisy and usually messy--some were better lookingthan others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; itmight help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster. Then he heard Doris instructing the children:

"See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, thisis going to be another play. Now listen sharp! When we come to the stepsyou must stand close together and give that pretty courtesy that Marytaught you yesterday. Now, darlings--don't forget!"

There are moments and incidents in life that seem out of all proportionto their apparent significance. Thornton waited for what was about tohappen as he might have the verdict were he on trial for his life. Hewas frightened at he knew not what. Would his child look like Meredith?Would she have those eyes that could find his soul and burn it evenwhile they smiled? Would she look like him; find in him some thing thatwould help him to forget? He looked up. Doris had planned dramatically. She left the babies alone on the top step and came down to Thornton. 

"Aren't they wonderful?" she asked in so calm and ordinary a tone thatit was startling. 

They were wonderful--even a hard, indifferent man could see that. Slim, vigorous little creatures they were with sturdy brown legs showing abovesocks and broad-toed sandals. Their short white frocks fell in wideningline from the shoulders, giving the effect of lightness, winginess. Bothchildren had lovely hair, curly, bobbed to a comfortable length, andtheir wide, curious eyes fastened instantly upon Thornton--eyes ofpurple-blue and eyes of hazel-gold; strange eyes, frankly confrontinghim but disclosing nothing; eyes of utterly strange children; not afamiliar feature or expression to guide him. 

"I have called them Joan and Nancy, " Doris was saying. "You expressed nopreference, you know. "

"Which is--is--mine?" Thornton whispered the question that somehow madehim flush with shame. 

"I do not know!" It was whisper meeting whisper. 

"You--what?" Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side. Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he hadsuspected--Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by thatinfernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten. He recalled, too, with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into oneof humour--or the reverse. 

"I do not know. I never have known, " Doris was saying. "You see, I wasafraid of heredity if I had to deal with it. Without knowing it I couldbe just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity toovercome handicaps. I thought they might reveal themselves--but so farthey have not. They are adorable. "

"This is damnable! Someone shall be made to speak--to suffer--or byGod!----"

The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened thechildren. 

"Auntie Dorrie!" they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms. 

"Come, darlings. The play is over and you did it beautifully. "

They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes uponThornton. 

"You--expect me to--to--take both?" he asked, still in that low, thicktone. 

"Certainly not. One is mine. I shall demand my rights, be quite sure ofthat. "

"This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" Thornton was atbay; "the most immoral. "

"I have often thought that it might be, " Doris returned, her lipsagainst Nancy's fair hair, "but the more you consider it the more youare convinced that it is not. It is simply--unusual. " The tone defiedunderstanding. "You must consider what I have done, George, step bystep. I did not act rashly. And when we come to actual contact with allthe truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank. May Isend the children away? It is time for their nap. " Already Doris'sfinger was pressing the electric button cunningly set in the coping ofthe fountain. 

"Yes, do. There is much to say, " Thornton muttered and, not having heardthe bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once. He looked up, and Mary looked at him. The girl felt the atmosphere. Thornton made adistinct impression upon her. 

Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waitedfor her to begin. 

"Well, " he said, "what have you to say? It would seem as if you mighthave a great deal, Doris. "

"I have nothing to say. "

"I suppose you did this to humiliate me--defeat me?" Thornton's lipstwitched. 

"On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, George. I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith's child. "

"Did you forget that she was also mine?"

"I tried to. After a bit, I did--after the identities of the babiesbecame blurred. If you stop to think and are just, you will understandthat I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith'schild. That is all that seemed to count. Suppose you could claim yourchild now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me? Haveyou really the child's interest at heart--you, who left its motherto----"

"The mother--left me! Don't overlook facts, Doris. " Thornton's faceflamed angrily. 

"Yes. In self-defence she left you!" Doris held him with eyes heavy withmisery. "I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me totake this step. "

"But not enough to make you pause and consider!" A bitterness rang inthe words. 

"There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider, " saidDoris. 

Thornton got up and paced the room. Suddenly he turned like a man atbay. 

"But the inheritance?" he flung out. 

"I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it. "

"I mean--" here Thornton's eyes fell--"I mean the money, " he stammered. 

"I see!" Doris's voice trembled; then she hastened on: "The money yousent, George, has never been touched. I have waited for this hour. "

"And your revenge!" muttered Thornton. 

"I had not considered it in that light. " A deep contempt throbbed inthe words. "When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, witha desire to save Meredith's child!"

"At the risk of passing her off as the child of--whom?"

And then Doris smiled--a long, strange smile that burnt its way intoThornton's consciousness. 

"It was that doubt that saved, gave hope, " she said, and quickly added, "I will tell you all there is to know, and then I request that you spareme another interview until you have come to a decision regarding--yourchild. "

There was pitifully little to tell. A deserted mountain child!

"Who deserted it?" Thornton broke in. 

"I did not ask. Sister Angela promised to find a home for it where noone would know of its sad birth--there are people willing to risk thatmuch for a little child. I am!"

"And this--this Sister Angela----" Thornton asked. 

"She died the year after. "

"And the others?"

"I doubt if they ever knew much, but if they did they forgot--they arelike that; besides, I have not heard of them in years. "

More and more Thornton realized the hopelessness of personalinvestigation, and he was not prepared to take outside counsel, certainly not yet. 

"The Sisters did fairly well for the outcast in this instance, " hesneered, "but we may all have to pay some day. Murder will out, youknow!"

"Of course, " Doris agreed, wearily; "we all understand that. "

"Do you think the children will?" Thornton's eyes were gloomy and grave. "How about the hour when they--know?"

Doris felt the pain in her heart that this possibility always awakened. She raised her glance to the one full of hate and said quietly:

"Who can tell?"

There was a dull pause. Then:

"Well, I guess I have all I want for the present. I'm not out of thegame, Doris, just count on me being in it at every deal of the cards. Good-bye--for now. "

"Good-bye, George. I will not forget. "

CHAPTER VI

"_There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship. Oneis Truth; the other is Tenderness. _"

After Thornton's departure Doris metaphorically, drew a long breath. Shefelt that he would make no further move at present--how could he? As onefaces a possible surgical operation with the hope that Nature mayintervene to make it unnecessary, she turned to her blessed duties withrenewed vigour. 

Of course, there were hours, there always would be hours, when, alone, or when the children played near her, Doris wondered and speculated butalways reached the triumphant conclusion that her love, equal andsincere, for both little girls, had been made possible by herunprejudiced relations with them. And that must count for much. 

Every time she was diverted from her chosen path she courageously tookstock, as it were, of her gains and possible losses. 

For instance, when Mrs. Tweksbury had appeared to discern resemblancebetween Nancy and Meredith, she wondered if, as often is the case, theimpartial observer could discover what familiarity had screened?

But try as she did, at that time, she could not find the slightestphysical trace of likeness, and she brought old photographs to her aid. While, on the other hand, the mental and temperamental characteristicsof both little girls were such as were common to healthy childhood. 

Again it was possible for Doris to face any fact that might presentitself--she knew that, by her past course, she had not only securedjustice for the children but faith in herself. 

Her greatest concern now was the menace of Thornton. 

"Think of Nancy, " she mused, "sweet, sensitive, and fine, under suchinfluence! And Joan so high-strung and reckless! It would be a hopelesscondition!"

Looked upon from this viewpoint Doris grew depressed. While herconscience remained clear as to any real wrong she had done in acting asshe had, there were anxious hours spent in imagining that time when, asThornton said, the girls themselves must know. 

When must they know?

Doris had not considered that before to any extent. 

Thornton might demand at once that they know the truth. He had a rightto that. 

Here was a new danger, but as the silence continued the immediate fearof this lessened. And the children were mere babies. They could notpossibly understand if they were told, now. 

Until such time, then, as they must be told, Doris renewed her effortsin building well the small, healthy minds and bodies. 

"When they marry"--this brought a smile--"when they marry! Of course, then, they must know. " With that conclusion reached, anxiety was oncemore lulled to rest. 

Gradually the old peaceful days merged into new peaceful days. Dorisentered, little by little, into her social duties so long neglected; thechildren romped and lived joyously in the old house--"justchildren"--until suddenly a small but significant thing occurred whenthey were nine years of age that startled Doris into a line of thoughtthat brought about a radical change in all their lives. 

She was sitting in the library one stormy day, reading. The tall back ofthe chair hid her from view, the fire and the book were soothing, andthe excuse--that the storm gave her the right to do what she wanted todo, rather than what she, otherwise, might feel she should do--added toher enjoyment. 

From above she heard the voices of the children and Mary's quietintervention now and again. 

Then Joan laughed, and the sound struck Doris as if she had never heardit before. What a peculiar laugh it was--for a child! Silver clear, musical, but with a note of defiance, recklessness, and yes, almostabandon. 

Joan was teasing Nancy about her dolls--Joan detested dolls, shedeclared that it was their stupid stare that made her dislike them. Sheonly wanted live things: dogs and cats, not even birds--she was sorryfor birds. Nancy's dolls were to her "children, " and she was pleadingnow for an especial favourite and Joan was praying--rathermockingly--that God would let it get smashed because of "the proudnose. "

"But God makes children's noses!" Nancy was urging. 

"Well! He don't make dolls, " Joan insisted, and proceeded with herpetition until Nancy's wails brought Mary upon the scene. 

Doris listened. She could not hear what Mary said, but presently peacereigned above-stairs and the pelting storm and the book resumed theirpower. 

It might have been a half hour later when she heard soft, stealthyfootsteps in the hall. She sat quite still, believing that one of thechildren was hiding and that the other would be on the trailimmediately. The small intruder passed through the library and went intothe sunken room. 

Doris, herself unseen, looked from behind her shelter and saw that itwas Joan, and before she could call to her she was held silent by whatthe child proceeded to do. 

Deftly, quickly she disrobed and stood in her pretty, childish nakednessin the warm room. 

For a moment she poised and listened, then she stepped over the rim ofthe fountain, took the exact attitude of one of the figures, and withrapt, upturned face became rigid. 

It was wonderfully lovely, but decidedly startling. Still Doris waited. 

The water dripped over the small body; Joan's lips were moving in someweird incantation, and then with the light all gone from her pretty faceshe came out of the basin, pulled her clothing on as best she could, andflung herself tragically in a deep chair. 

For a moment Doris thought the child was crying, but she was not. Herlimp little body relaxed and the eyes were sad. 

Doris rose and went to the steps. 

"Why are you here alone, Joan?" she asked. 

Quite simple the reply came:

"I was--trying to make it come true, Auntie Dorrie, " this with asuspicious break in the voice. 

"What, darling?" Doris came down and took the child in her arms. 

"Mary says if you believe anything hard enough you can make it cometrue. _She_ always can! I wanted to play with the fountain girls--I knowit would be beautiful--but you have to be _like them_. You have to shutthe whole world out--and then you know what they know. "

"Why, little girl, do you think the fountain children are happier thanyou and Nancy?"

With that groping that all mothers feel when they first confront the_individual_ in the child they believed they knew Doris asked herquestion. 

"I've used Nancy and me all up!" was Joan's astonishing reply. 

"All up?" the two meaningless words were the most that Doris couldgrasp. 

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie. Dolls and Mary's silly stories and Nancy's funnygames all over and over and over until they make me--sick!"

Joan actually looked sick, so intense was she. 

"Nan is happy always, Aunt Dorrie--she's made like that--but I usethings up and then I want something else. Mary said that, honest true, things would come if you believed hard enough. Maybe I cannot believehard enough--or maybe Mary didn't speak truth. She doesn't always, AuntDorrie. "

Doris gasped and drew the child closer. It was like being dragged, bythe little hand, to an unsuspected danger that she, not the child, understood. 

Gradually the inner side of the years was turned out by Doris's carefulquestions and Joan's quiet simplicity. She revealed so much now thatshe found that her view of life had a dramatic interest. It appeared, quite innocently, that Nancy could assume any position in order to winher way. 

"She always speaks truth, Auntie Dorrie, " Joan loyally defended, "butshe can make truth out of such queer things; it just _is_ truth toNancy, for she doesn't want to hurt people's feelings. Mary likes Nancybest, for I cannot make truth when I want to. Aunt Dorrie--truthis--a--_a thing_, isn't it?"

"Yes, darling. But we--we see it differently, that is all. "

This was comforting to Joan, and she smiled. Then Mary again took thecentre of the stage--Mary's interpretations, all coloured with themystery of her desolate childhood; her old superstitions and power tocontrol by the magic of her imagination. There were certain tales, itseemed, that were held as bribes. Nancy would always succumb to thelures; Joan, only to a few. 

"What are they, dear? I love fairy stories, you know. "

Doris was keeping her voice cool and calm. 

"Why, Mary says there is a Rock on a big mountain that is--bewitched!And everything near it is, too. She says things grow on it and you lookat them and they are alive, and you can--can, well, use them! Mary saw aroad once and just went up on it--it was a bewitched road, and shegot--lost!" Joan's eyes widened. "Mary says she'll have to find her wayback somehow, and if Nancy and I are naughty, she'll go and find it atonce! Nancy is afraid, but I told Mary I'd follow her!

"And then Mary said that once she just longed and longed for a doll--shehad never had one--and she saw The Ship on The Rock and she went up toit--that was before she got lost on the road--and she asked the captainof The Ship for a doll, and he said he would send one to her. And shewent home and that very night--that _very_ night, Aunt Dorrie, shelooked in a room where she heard a funny noise and she saw a live doll!And while she was looking she saw a tall big lady bring in another. Yousee, when The Rock gets alive, everything is alive and Mary had forgotthat--and so the dolls were--were babies. Nancy believes that, butI--tried it on Nancy's dolls--and it isn't true!"

The rain outside beat wildly against the windows; the wind lashed thevines and roared down the chimney. 

"Are--you asleep, Aunt Dorrie?" The silence awed Joan. 

"No, dear heart. I am just thinking. "

And so Doris was--thinking that she was walking in the dark. Her ownsmall flashlight had seemed enough to guide her, and here she discoveredthat it had only shown her one path, the one she had chosen, and all theother paths--Mary's, Nancy's, and Joan's--had been disregarded. 

Suddenly it seemed as dangerous to have too much faith as too little. 

"I want you, Joan, dear, to go up and play, now, with Nancy. See if youcannot take all the old games and make a new one. That would be such apleasant thing to do. "

"Must I, Auntie Dorrie? I'd rather stay here close to you. It's a newgame. I like it here. "

It was hard to send the small, clinging thing away, but Doris was firm. 

Once alone, she closed her eyes and let her hands fall, palms upward, onher lap. She felt tired and perplexed. There had come a parting of theways. Apparently the ninth year was a dangerous year. What must she do?Was Mary more ignorant than she seemed or--more knowing? What had Maryknown at Ridge House?

The dull, quiet girl, as Doris recalled her, seemed merely a part of themachinery of the Sisters' Home; she had never taken her intoaccount--but had she been what she seemed? What was she now?

It was appalling--in the doubt as to what was, or was not--to think thatso much had been taken for granted. 

The children had seemed babies. The mere physical care had been the mainconsideration, and while that was going on Joan had grown weary of theold games and Nancy had learned to gain her ends by indirect methods. 

Clearly, Doris must have help at this juncture. 

"I see, " she thought on, heavily, "why fathers _and_ mothers are nonetoo many where children are concerned. "

It was then that she thought of David Martin in a strangely new way--away that brought a faint colour to her cheeks. 

All the afternoon she thought of him while she, having set Mary to othertasks, devoted herself to Nancy and Joan. She read to them, scamperedthrough the house with them, did anything and everything they suggested, until she had subdued the nervous strain and could laugh a bit at herbugbears of the morning. Joan, flushed and towzled, Nancy, sweetlyradiant, effaced the menacing images her anxiety had created--but shestill needed help. And David Martin was the one, the only one among herfriends who seemed adequate to her need. 

"I've tried to be a mother, " she thought, "but I have taken the fatherout of their lives--I must supply it. "

When the children were in bed and the house quiet, Doris went to thesunken room and, taking up the telephone receiver, called her number. She was calm and at peace. She was prepared to lay the whole matter ofthe past few years before David Martin, and she was conscious, already, of relief. 

"I am going to let myself--go!" she thought, her ear waiting for areply. 

It was Martin who answered. 

"David, are you quite free for an hour?"

"For the entire evening, Doris. Are the children sick?"

How like Martin that was! What most concerned and interested Doris wasfirst in his thought. 

Doris's face twitched. 

"It's my friend, " she said, slowly, "that I want. Not my physician. "

"I'll be there in a half hour. "

The soft drip of the rain outside was soothing. So happy did Doris feelthat she wondered if her fears would not strike Martin as absurd, andafter all, why should she lay her burden of confession upon him in orderto ease her perplexity? Along this line she argued with herself whileshe ordered a tray to be sent up as soon as Doctor Martin arrived. 

She gave particular instructions as to the preparation of the daintiesMartin enjoyed but which no one but Doris ever set before him. 

"I chose the shield of silence, " she mused. "Why should I ask another tohelp me with it now?"

Still, in the end, her honest soul knew that it was not help for herselfshe was seeking, but guidance for the children whose best interests shemust serve. 

And then, as one looks back over the path he has travelled while hepauses before going on, Doris Fletcher saw how the love of David Martinhad been transformed for her sake into friendship that it might brightenher way. She had never been able to give him what he desired, but soprecious was she to him--and full well she knew it--that he had becomeher friend. 

Out of such stuff one of two things is evolved--a resentful man, or themost sacred thing, that can enter a woman's life, a true friend. 

Martin had made a success of his profession; his unfulfilled hopes hadseemed to broaden his sympathies instead of damming them. 

As the clock struck nine Martin appeared at the doorway--a tall, massivefigure, the shoulders inclined to droop as though prepared for burdens;the eyes, under shaggy brows, were as tender as a woman's, but the mouthand chin were like iron. 

"David, it was good of you to come. " Doris met him on the steps and ledhim to his favourite chair, drawn close to the blazing fire. 

"To take any chance leisure of yours is selfish--but I had to!"

Martin took the outstretched hands and still held them as he sat down. After all the silent years the old thrill filled his being. 

"This is a great treat, " he said in his big, kind voice. "I was justback in the office. I steered two small craft into port thisafternoon--I need a vacation. "

Doris recalled how this phase of Martin's profession always exhaustedhim, and she smiled gently into his eyes. Just then the tray she hadordered was sent up. He looked at it and his tired face relaxed; thedeep eyes betrayed the boyish delight in the thought that had promptedthe act. 

"You must need me pretty bad to pay so high!" he said, watching Dorispour the thick cream into his cup of chocolate. 

"I do, David, but really I'm not buying; I'm indulging myself. May Ichatter while you eat? There are three kinds of sandwiches on the plate. Take them in turn, they are warranted to blend. " Then quite suddenly:

"David, it's about the children. They are over nine. What happens, physiologically, when children--girls--are--are nearly ten?"

"Deviltry, often. At nine they are too old to spank, too young to reasonwith--it's the dangerous age, at least the outer circle of the dangerousage. " Martin tested the second sandwich. 

"And the prescription? What do you prescribe for the dangerous age?"Doris felt that it was best to edge toward the vital centre bycircuitous routes. 

"Barrels and bungholes or what stands for barrels and bungholes--a goodschool where a mixture of discipline with home ideals prevail. I know ofseveral where giddy little flappers are marvellously licked into shapewithout danger of breaking. I've felt for some time that your kidsneeded--well, not love and care, surely, but a practical understanding. "

"Why didn't you tell me, David?"

"People never appreciate what they do not pay for. Now that you haveoffered up this tribute to the animal of me, I know you are ready forthe other. "

"The other, David?"

"Yes, the best of me. That always belongs to you. "

This was daring, and it sent Doris to cover while she caught her breath. David calmly ate on. After the sandwiches there was a bit of fruit cakemade from the recipe handed down from the days of Grandfather Fletcher. 

"David, do you think mothers, I mean real mothers, have divineintuitions about their children? Intuitions that, well, say, adoptedmothers never have?"

"No, I don't. The majority of mothers are vamps. They think they have astrangle hold on their offspring; a right to mould or bully them out ofshape. The best school I know is run by a woman who says it takes her ayear to shake off the average mother; after that the child becomes anindividual and you can get a line on it. "

"That's startling, David. It's hard, too, on mothers. "

"Oh! I don't know. I often think if mothers could be friends to theirchildren, _real friends_, I mean, and not claim what no human being hasa right to claim from another, they'd reap a finer reward. I'd hate tolove a person from duty. The fifth commandment is the only one with apromise. It needs it! What is the stuffing in this third sandwich, Doris? It comes mighty near perfection. "

"I never give away the tricks of my trade, David! And let me tell you, you are mighty like a sandwich yourself--light and shade in layers; butI reckon you are right about the friend part in mothers. Then, too, Ithink an adopted mother has this to her credit--she doesn't darepresume. "

"No, often she bullies. She thinks she paid for the right. After all, the best any of us can do for a child is to set it free; point out thechannels and keep the lights burning!"

"David, you are wonderful. You should have had children. " The tears werein Doris's eyes. 

"Oh! I don't know--I'd have to have too many other things tacked on. Allchildren are mine now, in a sense. "

David pushed the tray away and leaned luxuriously back in his chair. 

"Now, " he said, with his peculiar smile that few rarely saw, "let's haveit! The skirmish is over. "

Then Doris told him--feeling her way as she poured her confession intothe ears of one who trusted her so fully and who asked so little. Shesaw his startled glance when she, beginning with Meredith's death, struck the high note of the real matter. Martin was not resenting herpast reticence, but he was taken off his guard, and that rarely happenedto him. 

Once, having controlled his emotions, he was placid enough. He noted theoutstretched hands in Doris's lap and estimated her weariness and herneed of him. After all, those were the big things of the moment. InMartin's thought any act of Doris's could easily be explained andrighted. He did not interrupt her, he even saw the humour of her accountof the scene with Thornton, years before, when she presented bothchildren to his horrified eyes. Martin shook with laughter, and thattrivial act did more to strengthen Doris than anything he could havedone. It relieved the tension. 

"How did you manage to create the impression, among us all, that thesechildren are twins?" Martin, seeing that Doris had finished with thevital matter, turned to details. "I cannot recall that you ever saidso--and there seems to be no reason why they should be twins. "

"That's it, David, there never was a reason, really, and I did notintend, at first, to give the impression--I simply said nothing. Thingslike this grow in silence until they are too big to handle. It was thetelling of plain half-truths that did the mischief--and letting theconclusions of others pass. Of course I did not hesitate with GeorgeThornton, he mattered; the others did not seem to count--no one but you, David. I have felt I wronged your faith, somehow. "

Martin, at this, began to defend Doris. 

"Oh, I don't agree to that. It was entirely your own affair. You wroteto me while you were away about Meredith. I realized how cut up youwere, and God knows you had reason to be. Until you needed me, I don'tsee but what you had a right to act as you saw fit about the children. "

"David, I always need you. It is because I need you so much that I havedecency to keep my hands off!"

Martin's brows drew close, his mouth looked stern, but he was againcontrolling the old, undying longing to possess the only woman he hadever loved, and shield her from herself!

Then he gave his prescription:

"Doris, get rid of Mary. Find a proper place for her and forget whateverdoubts you may have. Remember only her years of service; she gave thebest she had. Then send the children to Miss Phillips'. Of course, youmust write to Thornton. Tell him as much or as little as you choose. He's rightfully in the game. We're all three playing with a dummy. " HowDoris blessed Martin for that "we three!" He had come into the game and, once in, Martin could be depended upon. 

"You've run amuck among accepted codes, " he was saying with that curiouschuckle of his, "and yet, by heaven! you seem to have established adivinely inspired one for the kids. "

"You think that, David? You are not trying to comfort me?"

Martin got up. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be off. He had givenwhat he could to meet Doris's need--given it briefly, concisely, as washis way. 

Doris brought his coat and held it for him--her face lifted to his withthat yearning in her eyes that always unnerved him. It was the look ofone who must offer an empty cup to another who thirsted. Then she spoke, after all the silent years:

"David, I have always loved you, but I am beginning to understand atlast about love. I had not the 'call' in my soul. Merry had it, themountain mother had it--but it never came to me. Without it, I dared notoffer to pay the cost of marriage. That would have been unjust to you. Idid realize that, but the deeper truth has only come recently. I wonderif you can understand, dear, if I say now, even _now_, that I would beglad for you to marry and be happy--as you should be?"

"Doris, I counted that all up years ago. It did not weigh against you!"Martin's voice was husky. 

"Then, David, be my friend and the friend of my little children. Fortheir sakes, I implore your help along the way. "

Martin bent and touched his lips to Doris's head which was bowed beforehim. 

"Thank you, " he said with infinite tenderness; "you are permitting me toshare all that you have, my dear. Good-night. "

CHAPTER VII

"_To do our best is one part, but to wash our hands smilingly of theconsequences is the next part, of any sensible virtue. _"

In much that frame of mind, Doris arose the day following Martin's call. 

By some subtle force the d�bris of the past seemed to have been disposedof; the misunderstanding on her part and David's. 

"It is the 'call' that makes everything possible or tragicallywretched, " she said, "and one cannot be blamed for being born deficient. Thank God I fitted in, though, when others were called away. "

With David's understanding and co�peration the present could beconfronted and the "hand washing of consequences" undertaken. 

"I have done my best, " Doris felt sure of this, "_my_ best, and now Imust do a bit of trusting. It has been my one daring adventure. It mustnot fail. "

After many attempts she wrote and dispatched a letter to GeorgeThornton, simply stating that she was about to send the children toschool. 

While waiting for his reply she turned her attention to Mary, for in anycase, she decided, the children must be placed in another's care. WhatMary felt when Doris explained things to her no one was ever likely toknow. The girl's face became blanker; the lines stiffened. 

"It was, " Doris confided later to Martin, "as if I were wiping the pastout as I spoke. "

The fact was that Doris was rekindling the past--the past that lay backof the years of plain duty. 

"I have not overlooked, Mary, " Doris strove to get under the crust ofreserve and find something with which to deal emotionally, "the years ofdevotion to us all. You have made no social ties for yourself; have nottaken any pleasures outside--what would you like to do now, Mary?"

"Go home. "

"Go--home? Why--where is home, Mary?"

The pathos struck Doris--the pathos of those who, having served others, find themselves stranded at last. 

"Down to Silver Gap. " As she spoke, Mary was hearing already the soundof the river on the rocks and seeing the spring flowers in the crevicesof the hills. 

"You mean, go back to Ridge House? You could not stay there alone, Mary, with old Jed. "

Mary stared blankly--she was further back than Ridge House. 

"I've been saving, " she went slowly on, "all the years. I reckon I havemost enough to buy the cabin where us-all was born. " The tone and wordstook on the mountain touch. Doris was fascinated. 

"You mean your father's old cabin?" she asked. 

"Yes. It lies 'cross the river from Ridge House, and when I think ofit, " a suggestion of radiance broke on Mary's face, "I get a rising inmy side. I'm aiming to get it back----"

The girl stopped short--something in her threatened to break loose. 

The pause gave Doris a moment to consider. She was baffled by Mary, butshe saw clearly that the girl had but one desire. 

"Mary, " she said, presently, "I have always intended, when the childrenno longer needed you, to give you some proof of my appreciation of allthat you have done for us. You seem to have shown me a way. You shallhave the old cabin, if it can be obtained, and it shall be madecomfortable for you. It is not so far but what you can have a littleoversight of Ridge House, too, and that will mean a great deal to me. Iam thinking of opening the house sometime. "

Doris got no further for, to her astonishment, Mary rose and camestiffly toward her. When she was near enough she reached out her handsand said:

"God hearing me, 'I'll pay you back some day. I will; I will!"

Doris was embarrassed. 

"You have paid everything you owe me, Mary, " she returned, quietly. "Itis my turn now. I will see about the cabin at once. "

Finally a letter came from Thornton. A dictated letter. 

He was about to leave for South Africa and would be gone perhaps severalyears. 

He left everything in Doris's capable hands!

Again Doris took breath for the next stretch of the long way. 

And Joan and Nancy went to Dondale and Miss Phillips. 

It was a hard break for them all and was taken characteristically. Joan, tear-stained and quivering, set her face to the change and excitementwith unmistakable delight. Nancy was frightened into silent but smilingacquiescence. She expected, she told Joan, that it would kill her, butshe would not make Aunt Dorrie feel any worse than she did by showingwhat she felt! At this Joan tossed her head and sent two large tearsrolling down her cheeks. 

"None of us will die, Nan. We all _feel_ deathly, but this is--life. "

At ten Joan had a distinct comprehension of the difference betweenliving and life. To a certain extent you controlled the former; thelatter "got you. "

"I--I don't want life, " wailed Nancy, "I want Aunt Dorrie. "

"But life--wants you!"

Somewhere Joan had heard that, or read it--the old library was no hiddenplace to her--and she brought it forth now with emphasis. 

Nancy made no reply. In that mood Joan would show no mercy. It was whenshe was suffering the most that Joan could harden and frighten Nancy. She was lashing herself to duty when she sent the whip cracking. 

Martin accompanied Doris to Dondale. He was "Uncle David" to thechildren and part of their happy lives. 

"Take--take good care of Aunt Dorrie, " Nancy pleaded with him atparting, her poor little face distorted by the effort she was making. 

"You bet!" Martin bent and kissed the child. He approved of Nancy. Martin could never patiently endure complications, and Nancy was simpleand direct. Joan was another matter. At the last she was in highspirits. 

"It's going to be great, " she whispered to Doris. "All the girls and thenew games and the comings home for holidays and--and everything. "

It was after they were alone that Nancy called down extra suffering uponherself. 

"Aunt Dorrie will think you did not care, Joan, and Uncle David scowled. You make people think queer things about you. "

Joan turned and fixed Nancy with flaming eyes. 

"I want Aunt Dorrie to think everything is all right--you didn't! Youdid not cheat her. I did--for her sake. "

"Perhaps, " Nancy sometimes struck a high note, unsuspectingly, "perhapsAunt Dorrie would rather _have_ you care. "

Joan regarded her intently and then replied:

"Well, then, you're all right, Nan!"

The tone, more than the words, stung Nancy. It hurt her to have any onemisunderstand, but it often occurred to her that it hurt more to beunderstood!

In the train en route to New York Doris sat very quiet, thinking of thetwo little faces she was leaving--forever! It amounted to that--as everywoman knows. 

Nothing but their faces held as the miles were dashed past--faces thatportrayed the spiritual essence of the old, dear years--faces that wouldturn, from now on, to others, and take on new expressions, bear the markof another's impress. 

"Well, thank heaven, " Doris presently broke out, "I haven't been a vampmother, David. "

Martin came from behind his newspaper. 

"And because of that, Doris, " he said, "you will have those girls comingback to you. They will want to come. " He was thinking of Nancy. 

"Yes. I have a sure feeling about that. " Then: "How splendid it was ofJoan to act as she did! She'd rather we thought her hard than to let ussee her pain. "

Martin stared. "You mean Nancy?" he asked. 

"No. Nan, bless her, cannot disguise herself, but Joan can! Joan willsuffer through her strength. "

The period, always a dangerous one, the year following school life, became Doris's great concern while the school time progressed in orderlyfashion under Miss Phillips's guidance. 

"I am keeping my hands off, " Doris often confided to Martin. "It is onlyfair play while the children are at Dondale. You were right--MissPhillips is a wonderful woman--I have learned to trust her absolutely. She has appreciated what I tried to do for the girls; is building on it;she will return them to me--not different, but--extended! It's the timeafter, David, that I am planning. That time which is the link betweenrestraint and the finding of one's self. "

"I declare, " Martin would reply to this, "I wonder that you ever getresults, Doris; you harvest while others are sowing. "

But deep in us all is the current carrying on and on, and it washurrying Doris during the years while the girls were at Dondale. 

There were the happy vacations, the new interests, the marvel ofwatching the miracle of evolution from the child to the woman. At timesthis was breathlessly exciting. 

Doris filled her private time with useful and enjoyable hours. She gotinto closer touch with old friends, saw and heard the best in music anddrama, permitted herself the luxury of David Martin's friendship, andshared his confidences about his sister's son in the Far West--afatherless boy who promised much but often failed in fulfilment. 

"Odd, isn't it, Davey, " Doris sometimes said, "that you and I, having, somehow, lost what is the commonplace road for most men and women, havebeen called upon to assume many of the joys and sorrows of that broadhighway?"

"We none of us go scot free, " Martin returned. "I'm grateful for everydecent, common job thrown at me. "

And so the years passed and Doris had outlined a vague but comprehensiveline of action for the immediate months following the girls' graduationfrom Dondale. 

"I am going to take them abroad, " she announced to Martin; "take themover the route that Merry and I took--our last journey together. And, David, in that little Italian town they shall know--about Meredith andThornton!"

David started, but made no remark. 

"And when we return, " Doris went on, "I am going to bring the girlsout--I hate the term, I'd rather say let them out--just as Merry and Iwere, in this dear, old house. Mrs. Tweksbury and I have planned rathera brilliant campaign. "

And then came that bleak March day--Joan and Nancy were to graduate inJune--when the hurrying undercurrent in Doris Fletcher's life broughther to a sharp turn in the stream. 

She was sitting in the pleasant old room before a freshly made fire; thefountain trickled and splashed, the birds sang, defying the outdoorgloom and chill, and a letter from Miss Phillips lay upon her lap--aletter that had made her smile then frown. She took it up and read itagain. 

"I am deeply interested in your nieces, " so Miss Phillips wrote;"naturally a woman dealing, as I have for years, with youth in themaking, is both blunted and sharpened. Young girls fall into types--arecomfortably classified and regulated for the most part. Occasionally, however, the rule has its exceptions. "

Then Miss Phillips expatiated for a page or so, in her big, forcefulhandwriting, on Nancy's beauty, sweetness, and charm. 

"A fine, feminine creature, my dear Miss Fletcher. A girl I am proud torefer to as one of mine; a girl to carry on the traditions of such afamily as yours--a lovely, young American woman!"

This was what brought the smile, but as Doris turned over the sheet thesmile departed; a grave expression took its place. 

"You and I are progressive women, " so the new theme began; "we know thegame of life. We know that where we once played straight whist we nowplay bridge, but we are fully aware that the fundamentals are the same. 

"And now I must explain myself. For a young girl with the prospects thatJoan has her mental equipment is a handicap rather than an asset. Shedoes everything too well--except the drudgery of the class room, she hasmanaged to endure that, and with credit, but everything else sheaccomplishes with distinction. She lacks utterly any suggestion ofamateurishness!

"I hope you will understand. This would be splendid if she, like SylviaReed, for instance, had to look to her wits to solve her life problems;but it will distract her along the path of obvious demands. 

"She, I repeat, does everything too well. She dances with inspiration;nothing less. She sings with spirit and originality; she acts almostunbelievably well and she wins, without effort, the admiration andaffection of all with whom she comes in contact. I speak thus openly andintimately to you, Miss Fletcher, because, frankly, Joan puzzles me--shealways has. "

The letter dropped again on Doris's lap. Yes, Doris Fletcher didunderstand. She saw Joan, not as she was, a tall young creatureradiantly facing life, but as a tired little child in this very roomstepping' defeated from the fountain, because she could not make herdesires come true! She was listening to the old plaint: "I have used theold games--I want something new!"

Yes, Doris understood, and sitting alone, she vowed that Joan should notbe defrauded of her own, by misdirected love, prejudice, or luxury. 

"She shall have her chance!"

Then it was that something happened. Things--stopped!

For a moment Doris was conscious of making an effort to set them goingagain. She glanced at the clock--that had stopped! The fountain nolonger played; nor did the birds sing!

A black silence presently engulfed the whole world. At last Doris openedher eyes--or had they been open during the eternity when nothing hadoccurred? She glanced at the clock, a trivial thing against the carvingof the wall, but upon whose face Truth sat faithfully. Two hours hadpassed since she had noticed the clock before!

"But--I have been thinking a long time, planning for the children;reading the letter----" Doris sought to establish a normal state ofaffairs--she saw the letter lying at her feet, but did not bend to pickit up. 

"Only a faint. But I have never fainted before!" she thought on. 

She was not frightened, not even excited. She felt as if she had simplycome upon something that she had always known was on the road aheadawaiting her. She had come upon it sooner than she had expected to, thatwas all. She did not want to pass into the silence again if she couldhelp it, so she lay back in the chair quietly, guardedly, and waited. 

Then she heard steps. Outside the family only one person cameunannounced to the sunken room and gladly, thankfully, Doris turned hereyes and met David Martin's as he paused at the doorway above. 

Martin had himself in control before Doris noticed the fear in his eyes. He came slowly to her, sat down beside her and, while simply taking herhand in greeting, let his trained touch fall upon her pulse. It told himthe dread secret, but it did not shatter his calm--he even smiled intothe pale face and said lightly:

"Well, what have you been trying to do?"

Doris told him, without emotion, what had occurred. She did not removeher hand from his--his touch comforted her; held her to the things sheknew and loved and trusted. 

"And now, David, " she said at last, "I think we have both known thatsome day this would occur. We are too good friends to be anything butfrank--I am not afraid, and it is essential that I should know thetruth. The family ogre has caught me--but it has not conquered me yet!"

"Well, Doris--it is the first call!" The man's words hurt like a knifeturned upon himself. 

"I feared so--and I am forty-nine. "

"A mere child, my dear, if we deal honestly with the fact. Your fatherwas fifty-five and might have lived to be seventy if he had stopped intime. Your grandfather----"

"Never mind, David, let's keep to me. How much longer--have I?"

"No man on earth could tell you that, my dear, but I hope--alwaysgranting that you will be wise--that you may count on, say, twentyyears. "

They both smiled. After all, what did it matter?

"And--what do you suggest I should do--as a beginning of the--twentyyears?"

"Close this house, Doris, and start another kind of existence--somewhereelse. "

"Why, David--I must bring the girls out, you know. They must not betold--of this. "

"They need be told only what you choose to have them know, but as to thebringing-out farce--that's rot! Those girls will get out by one door oranother, never fear. _You_ are to be kept in--that's the important thingat present. "

"Dear old David!" Doris's eyes dimmed as she looked at the kind facebending over the hands lying limp, now, on her lap. She noticed thatthere was white on the temple where the dark hair had turned; the heavyshoulders were bent permanently. She longed to do something more forDavid during the next--twenty years!

"You must not give way, Doris. A change is good for us all. " Martinnoted the tears in the eyes holding his own, but he did not understandtheir source. 

"I am afraid the girls will be so disappointed, " was what Doris said. 

"Pampered creatures! It will do them good. But Nancy will love it andJoan can kick the traces if she wants to--that will do her good. "Martin leaned back and crossed his legs in the old boyish way. 

"What will Nancy love, David?"

"Why, the out-of-door country life. She's that kind. Flowers and animalsand quiet. "

"Country life?" Doris sat up. "But, David, I could not stand countrylife, myself. I love to look at the country, listen to it, play withit--but I am a citizen to the core. It is simply impossible. One has tobe born with the country in his blood to be part of it. "

It was like pleading with the stern expression on Martin's face. 

He was not apparently listening, and when he spoke he carried on his ownthought:

"Queer how things dovetail. We drop a stitch and then go back and pickit up--now there is that place of yours, down South, Ridge House!"

Doris's face twitched and then, because she was in that state closelybordering upon the unknown, that state open to impressions andsuggestions from sources outside the explainable, Silver Gap seemed toopen alluringly to her imagination. It _was_ like a dropped stitch to betaken up and woven into the pattern!

She suddenly felt that she had always known she must go back. It waslike the heart trouble--a thing on her road! Doris smiled and Davidpatted her hands. 

"That's the way it strikes me, " he said, quite as if he were gaininghis inspiration whence hers came. "After you told me about the--thechildren, you know, Doris, years ago, I went down there and gave theplace a look-over. The South always affects me like a--well, a lotusflower--sleeping but filled with wonderful dreams. It gets me! Why, after seeing Ridge House I even went so far as to buy a piece of landknown as Blowing Rock Clearing. I've planned, if that scamp of a nephewof mine ever develops into a sawbones, to leave him in charge here andgo down South myself and put up a shack on my clearing. " Martin waswatching Doris now from under his brows; he was talking against thesilence that might engulf her again; seeking to hold her to a futurethat he had been vaguely considering in the past. He thankfully saw herinterest growing. 

"You did that, David--how like you!"

The tears still came easily to Doris's eyes. 

"Oh, well, I have a thrifty streak, and I hated to see a property likeRidge House lie fallow. It's great. The buying of Blowing Rock was pureYankee sense of a bargain. But you see how it all works out. You'll havethe time of your life developing your holdings and, at odd moments, Ican start my shack. Look upon the change as an adventure--nothingpermanent. In a year or so you may be able to spend most of the time onpavements--though why in God's name you want to is hard to imagine. "

Doris was smiling. 

"But the girls!" she faltered. 

"Forget them. Give them a chance to think of you. Take them abroad--thatwill be good for you all, but in the autumn, Doris, go South! You mustescape next winter. "

CHAPTER VIII

"_One is assured that there is a Power that fights with us against theconfusion and evil of the world. _"

The warm June sunlight lay over the broad lawns and meadows of Dondale;it touched with luring power the buds to blossom and, by its tricks ofmagic, girlhood to womanhood. 

Only a month ago Joan and Nancy Thornton and those who, with them, wereabout to leave Miss Phillips's school, had seemed little girls, but nowthey were changed. There was a gravity when they looked back at thesafe, happy years that not even the glory of the future could dispel. 

They were eager to go forward but were half afraid. 

Joan and Nancy had left the others and walked across the lawn and weresitting on a vine-covered wall under a noble magnolia tree. Nancy wasstill sweetly fair and she had not outgrown the childish outline ofcheek and chin, the pretty droop of the left eyelid, and the quick habitof smiling. She was tall and slim and graceful and bore herself with atouching dignity that was as unconscious as it was distinguished. 

Nature had not arrived yet with Joan. She was still in the making, andthe best that could be said for her was that she was undergoing theordeal with bewitching charm. 

The dusky hair was filled with life and light; the eyes wereyellow-brown and dark-lashed; the skin was creamy and smooth and thefeatures irregular--eyes and mouth a bit prominent in the thin face. Joan was thin, not slim. You were conscious of her bones--but they werepretty bones, and every muscle of her lithe young body was as flexibleand strong as a boy's. She could change from awkwardness to grace by aturn of thought. Joan was subject to outside control, while Nancy seemedpossessed by innate inheritance. Both girls were in white, and whileNancy's appearance was immaculate, Joan's was suggestive ofindifference. 

"It is wonderful--this going abroad, " Joan was saying while her long, supple fingers wove the stems of daisies into an intricate pattern. "Andto go to that little Italian town where mother was married! Nan, I'mgoing to know all about mother and father this summer. "

Nancy's head was lifted slightly, and her cool blue eyes fixedthemselves upon Joan. There was no doubt about the colour of Nancy'seyes--they were blue. 

"I do hope, Joan, " she said, "that you are not going to spoil everythingby making Aunt Dorrie uncomfortable. If she has not told us things, itis because she thinks best not to. "

"But it's getting on my nerves, Nan. It's ominous. Maybe there isa--a--tragedy in our young lives"--Joan dramatically set her words intocomedy--"a dark past. How I would adore that!"

"I would loathe it!" Nancy murmured, "and there couldn't be. I knowthere is only a deep sadness. I wouldn't hurt Aunt Dorrie by--byunearthing it. "

"Nan, " here Joan pointed her finger, "do you know a blessed thing aboutyour father? I don't!"

Nancy flushed, but made no reply. 

"There's where the secret lies--I feel it in my blood!" Joan shudderedand Nancy laughed. "It didn't seem to matter until _now_, but, Nan, we're women at last!"

"Of course, " Nancy spoke, "I have thought of that. The best familieshave such things in them--but they don't talk about them. Now that weare women we must act like women--such women as Aunt Dorrie. "

"Nan, you're a snob. A pitiful, beautiful little snob!" Joan wafted akiss. "Your prettiness saves you. If you had a turned-up nose you'd bean abomination. "

"You have no right to call me a snob, Joan!" Nancy's fair face flushed. 

"Did I call you a snob, Nan, dear?"

"Yes, you did. It's not being a snob to be true to oneself. " Nancy putup her defences. 

"I should say not, " Joan agreed, but she laughed. 

"Just think of all that Aunt Dorrie represents!" Nancy went on. "She'sall that her father and her grandfather----"

"And her grandmothers, " Joan broke in, "made her! Just think of it! Andyou and I must carry on the tradition--at least _you_ must--I'm afraidI'll have to be a quitter. It makes me too hot. "

"You'll never be a quitter, you splendid Joan!" Nancy turned her face toJoan---- the old love had grown with the years, "You _are_ splendid, Joan--everyone adores you. "

But Joan did not seem to hear. Suddenly she said:

"Now do you know, Nan, I hate to go across the ocean this summer. Itseems such a waste of time. I am eager to begin. "

"Begin what, Joan?"

"Begin to live. "

"You funny Joan, what have you been doing since you were born?"

"Waking up, Nan, and stretching and learning to stand alone. I'm readynow to--to walk. I dare say I'll wobble, but--I don't care--I want tobegin. "

A sense of danger filled Nancy--she often felt afraid of Joan, or _for_Joan, she was not sure which it was. 

"I think you'll do nothing that will trouble and disappoint AuntDorrie, " she said, using the weapon of the weak. 

"I think Aunt Dorrie would want me to--to live my life, " Joan returned. 

"Oh! of course, she'd let you--go. That's Aunt Dorrie's idea of justice. But we have no right to impose on it. People may be willing to suffer, but that's no excuse for making them suffer. " Nancy did battle with thefear that was in her--her fear that Joan might escape her, and now, asin the old days, Nancy felt that play lost its keen zest when Joanwithdrew. 

Joan made no reply. She looked very young with the sunlight floodingover her. Her eyes wide apart, her short upper lip and firm, littleround chin were almost childlike when in repose, and her heavy hair roseand fell in charming curves as the breeze stirred it. 

"Joan, what do you want to do, really?" Nancy dropped from her perchbeside Joan and came close, leaning against the swinging feet as if tostay their restlessness. 

"Oh! I don't know--but something real; something like a beginning, notjust a carrying on. I want to dig out of me what is in meand--and--offer it for sale!" Joan leaned back perilously and laughed ather own folly and Nancy's shocked face. 

"Of course, I may not have anything anybody wants, " she went on, "butI'll never be able to settle down and be comfy until I _know_. Having arich somebody behind you is--is--the limit!" she flung out, defiantly. 

"I don't know what you mean, Joan. " Nancy was aghast. The fear withinher was taking shape; it was like a shrouded figure looming up ready tocast off its disguise. 

"Of course you don't, you blessed little snow-child!"--the laugh struckrudely on Nancy's discomfort--"why should you; why should any one inthis--this factory where we've all been cut in the same shape? We're allgoing to be let out of here to--to be married! They've never taken mein. "

"Oh, Joan!" Nancy looked about nervously. Of course every girl had thisideal in her brain, but she was not supposed to express it--exceptvicariously in the charm-lure. 

"It's all right, this marrying, " Joan went calmly on. "I want to myself, some day, it's splendid and all that--but something in me wants to flyabout alone first. "

"You're silly, Joan. "

"I suppose I am, snow-child. I suppose I'll get frightfully snubbed someday and come back glad enough to trot along with the rest--but oh! itmust be sublime to have the chance a boy has. He can haveeverything--even the try if he _is_ rich--and then he knows what he'sworth. Why, Nancy, I am going to say something awful now--so hold close. I want to know what my dancing is worth, and my singing, and my makingbelieve. I feel so powerful sometimes and then again--I am weak as--as ashadow!"

"Oh! Joan do be careful--you'll fall over the wall. "

Nancy flung her arms about Joan, who had tilted backward as sheportrayed her state of weakness. 

"You frighten me, Joan, and besides you have no right to disappoint AuntDorrie, and if she should hear you talk she'd be shocked!"

"I wonder, " mused Joan, "she is so understanding. I wonder. But come, Nan, dear, I must go practise the thing I'm to sing at Commencement, andI have a perfectly new idea for a dance on Class Day. "

David Martin and Doris were never to forget the impression Joan made onthe two occasions when she stood forth alone, during the Commencementweek, like a startling and unique figure, with the background of lovelyyoung girlhood. No one resented her conspicuousness. All gloried in it. They clapped and cheered her on--she was their Joan, the idol of theyears which she had made vital and electric by her personality. 

She danced on Class Day a wonderful dance that she had originatedherself. 

Nancy played her accompaniment, keeping her fascinated gaze upon Joanwhile her fingers touched the keys in accord with every movement. 

Lightly, bewilderingly, the gauzy, green-robed figure was wafted here, there, everywhere, under the broad elms, apparently on Nancy's tune. Shewas a leaf, a petal of a flower, a creature born of light and air. 

People forgot they were performing a stilted duty at a schoolfunction--they were frankly delighted and appreciative. Joan rose to thehomage and, at such moments, she was beautiful with a beauty that didnot depend upon feature or colouring. 

But it was when she sang on Commencement Day that she achieved hertriumph. 

Martin was watching Doris closely. She had had no return of her Marchillness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, but for that very reasonMartin kept a more rigid guard upon any excitement. There was that inDoris's face which, to his trained eye, was significant. It was as ifshe had been touched by a passing frost. She had not withered, but shewas changed. The time of blight might be soon or distant, but the frosthad fallen on the woman's life. 

It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from thehall. 

It happened this way:

The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist--it was ayoung professor, this time, not Nancy--came on. 

The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turnedexpectantly, and then Joan entered!

Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends--theywere all her friends--with that sweet confidence and understanding ofthe true artist. The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might haveproved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments. 

She stood at ease while the first notes were played--she appearedsuddenly detached, and then she sang. 

It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking:

 "I'll sail upon the Dog-star, I'll sail upon the Dog-star, And then pursue the morning And then pursue, and then pursue the morning. 

 "I'll chase the moon, till it be noon, I'll chase the moon, till it be noon, But I'll make her leave her horning. 

 "I'll climb the frosty mountain, I'll climb the frosty mountain, And there I'll coin the weather. 

 "I'll tear the rainbow from the sky And tie both ends together. "

The ringing girlish voice rose high and true and clear. 

"Bravo!" cried a man's voice and then:

"And she'll do it, too!"

It was at this point that Martin took Doris from the room. 

In the quiet of the deserted piazza Doris looked up at Martin throughtears. 

"Joan is feeling her oats. " Martin walked to and fro; he had been moremoved by the song than he cared to confess. 

"The darling!" Doris whispered. Then: "Can't you see what Miss Phillipsmeant, Davey? The child is talented--she shall never be held back. Wealth can be as cruel and crippling as poverty. Be prepared, David, Imean to let Joan--free. "

Martin came close and sat down. 

"Go easy, Doris, " he cautioned, then asked: "And how about Nancy?"

"David, I'm going to tell Nancy, after we come home from Europe--notall, of course, but enough to make her understand--about me! I cannotquite explain, but I am sure I am right in my decision. Nancy, indeedall of us, will, sooner or later, have to let Joan go! I saw thatclearly as she sang. I must fill Nancy's life and she must make up to mewhat I am about to lose. David, is this what mothers feel?"

"Some of them, Doris. The best of them. I'm glad to see you game. "

"Oh! yes. I'm glad, too--for Joan's sake. I will be giving Nancy herbest and surest happiness--with me, but not Joan. And so, David, Joanmust not have the slightest inkling--she must go, when her time comes, unhampered. You, Nancy, and I must contribute that to her future. "

Martin saw that Doris was still trembling, she was excited, too, in hercontrolled way. He was anxious. 

"You're seeing things in broad daylight, Doris. Why, my dear, both thegirls will be snapped up before any of us catch our breaths. That iswhat Miss Phillips' is for. Training for fine American wives andmothers. A good job, too. "

Doris smiled and shook her head. Then she said suddenly:

"David, the old spectre stalks! It seems as if I ought to know, as ifthe knowledge were right here, to-day. "

"Come, come, now Doris! If you do not quiet down I'm going to pack youoff to the hotel. Why, see here, the kids have not revealed themselves. You're lashing yourself about nothing. Can you not reason it out thisway----"

Martin sat close to the couch upon which Doris half reclined; he wasalmost praying that Joan would have a dozen encores--by request, apparently, she was again chasing the rainbow on her Dog-star. 

"The inheritance, I mean. For I see it is that that is clutching you. Mywork brings me close to primitive things--I believe in inheritance downto the roots--but by heaven, we inherit from the ages, not from our nextof kin alone. Each son and daughter of us comes into port with loadenough to crush us, and if we kept it all we'd go under. We shuffle offa lot. It is the ability to shuffle, the opportunity to shuffle thatcounts. Why, look here, Doris----"

And Doris was looking, holding with all her strength to the man's words. 

"That little mountain woman had more daring and courage, according towhat you told me, than poor Merry ever had. She cut a wider circle, gotmore out of life, I bet, went out of it more satisfied. Her child, withyour help, could develop into something mighty worth while for shewouldn't have so much to overcome at the start. On the other hand, Meredith's child would have to blaze her own trail, as far as anyguidance from her mother is concerned. Can't you see, that's whereinheritance plays the devil with hasty conclusions?"

Doris drew a long breath and sat up. She was seeking to hold to what shecould not see. 

"David, " she whispered, "is it the knowing, or the not knowing? Could Ihave helped more wisely had I not shirked the truth? In there, a momentago, it was as if Meredith were demanding. Oh! youth is awful in itspossibilities of success or failure. "

Martin was seriously alarmed. He had never seen Doris so shaken, but hetalked on, seeking by a show of calmness to disarm her fears. 

"It's the ability to shuffle off inheritance that counts, Doris. Youhave given these girls the strength and opportunity--to shuffle. Now, mydear, be sensible. It is up to the girls and they're all right. Holdfirm to your own belief, Doris. It's about to be proved. "

"Hear them. " Doris dropped back. "They are still applauding Joan. "

The next few months Doris always looked back upon as a connectingstretch of road between what she had but faintly feared and what becameassured. 

From the day Joan graduated she became the dominant influence in whatfollowed, and Nancy, being non-resistant, was engulfed in the generalrush of affairs; was absorbed and smilingly played her part as once shehad played Joan's accompaniment. 

Joan was not more selfish than the young generally are; she had hours ofnoble self-renunciation and generosity. Her ego was well developed, butit never drove her cruelly. 

Doris justified what happened, when she took time to consider, by herdetermination to be fair to both girls and then, unconsciously focussingon Joan because Joan was always in evidence. The girl's vitality andjoyousness were unfailing. Everything was of interest, and she seemed togather the flowers of life not so much for her own enjoyment as for theglory of shedding them on others. That is what disarmed people--thislavishness of the girl. She gave spice to life, and that has its value. If Nancy ever knew the natural desire to shine in her own light, notJoan's, she smilingly hid it--not even Doris suspected it. 

After Nancy was made to understand her aunt's state of health--and itwas, in the end, Martin who informed her--she rose superbly to whatoffered, poor child, an opportunity peculiarly her own. To her was giventhe sacred duty of watching the one she loved best in the world; ofwarding off anything that threatened her peace and comfort. Here werepower and authority and, though no one suspected, she would rule in hernarrow, detached kingdom. Nothing should defeat her. They should alllook to her!

Almost fiercely Nancy undertook her silent task. She smiled, she learnednew subtleties; she soon became the pretty barrier between Doris and anytroubling thing. 

With her half-afraid glance fixed upon the dazzling Joan, it was smallwonder that Doris fell into the trap set for her by Martin and Nancy. 

She took the girls abroad--or was it Joan that led the way? Sheconsidered, after reaching the little Italian town from which she hadseen Meredith depart, how best to speak of Thornton. She got so far asthe telling of Meredith's wedding in the unchanged chapel on the hillwhen Joan startled her by asking quite as a matter of course:

"Is our father still alive?"

Nancy turned pale and shrank before the question, but she saw that thecool tone had controlled the situation. Doris looked relieved instead ofshocked. 

"We've often talked of it, Nan and I, " Joan proceeded; "it did not seemvery vital one way or the other until now. "

"As far as I know, " Doris was surprised at her own calmness, "he isstill alive. "

"I'm glad of that, " Joan remarked, and there was a glint in her eyes. "I'd hate to have him dead--just now. "

Quite without reason Doris laughed. After all, what she had conjured upas a ghost was turning into a human possibility. It was never tofrighten her in the future. Joan had felled the spectre by her firststroke. 

Then Nancy spoke:

"I never want to hear his name again, " she said, firmly, relentlessly. 

Doris looked at her in amazement. Later she confided to Joan hersurprise. 

"I did not know the child had such sternness. "

Joan shrugged her shoulders and smiled. 

"Nan is like a rock underneath, Aunt Dorrie, " she said. "I suppose itis--what shall I say?--blood! It is concentrated in Nan. She's likeyou. Disgrace, or what seemed like disgrace, would kill her--it wouldmake me fight!"

And after that conversation all inclination to confide further in thegirls as to their relationship or lack of it deserted Doris. 

She saw a new cause for caution and went back to the stand she had takenwhen the children were babies--but with far less courage. 

"When they marry, of course, it must be told. "

Doris returned to New York in September, and after a fortnight in whichshe closed the old house and made arrangements for the servants, she wasso exhausted that she gladly turned her face southward. 

Nancy, already, was her mainstay. The girl had apparently got under theburden, and held it secure on her firm, young shoulders. She developedinitiative and the healing touch. No one disputed her where Doris wasconcerned, and Martin grimly accepted her as the most necessary thing inthe hope that lay in Ridge House. 

Their appearance there was marked by two incidents that Doris aloneheeded. 

First was the effect Nancy had upon Jed. 

The man stared at the girl as if he saw a ghost. Like the very old, hisreal sensations lay in the past. Nancy stirred him strangely. Theemotion was like a warm ray of sunlight striking in a dark place. Doriswatched him with interest and concern; but Jed had no words with whichto enlighten her. He only smiled wider, more often, and took tofollowing Nancy like a wavering, distorted shadow. 

The second incident was Mary. 

From her cabin across the river she had manipulated the arrangements atRidge House so perfectly that the machinery was oiled and running whenthe family arrived. 

Mary was more reserved, more self-contained than she had ever been, butagain, as Martin said to Doris, she must be judged by what she did, notby what she suggested, and she had accomplished marvels not only at theold place, but in her cabin across The Gap. In her once-deserted homeMary had contrived to resurrect all the ideals that had perished withher forebears. The rooms shone and glittered; the garden throve; andMary spun and wove and designed and made money. She was respected, feared, and secretly believed to be "low-down mean, " but calmly she wenther way. 

What she knew lay buried in her stern reserve, and she saw a great deal. 

She saw at once what had occurred since she left her years of service. Mary no longer served--she ruled. 

She saw that Joan, as she had given promise of doing, was controllingthe forces of her small world. Doing it as once she had done it in thenursery, with a radiant witchery that had gained its ends with all butMary herself!

While Mary's eyelids drew together, she focussed through the narrowslits upon Joan and with a hot, deep resolve she took up cudgels forNancy. 

And she bided her time. 

Back and forth from her cabin to the big house she walked daily, and toMary's cabin Nancy, presently, went--for comfort and inspiration, thoughshe did not realize it. 

Often, unknown to others, the two would sit near the fire, making avivid picture. Mary in her plaid cotton gown, bent over her folded arms, swaying to and fro, making few comments but conscious of beingunderstood. Nancy, fair and lovely, speaking more openly to the plain, silent woman near her than she had ever spoken to any earthly being andfeeling, under her sweet unconsciousness, the underlying confidence. 

"Of course, " she once whispered to Mary, "I would love all the thingsthat Joan loves and wants, but my duty to Aunt Dorrie is bigger thanthey, Mary. I am sure if Joan saw things as I do, she would act as I amacting. But we are keeping Joan from knowing. "

"Why?" The sharp word startled Nancy--was Mary disapproving?

"Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary. "

Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy's softness andretreated. 

And during that red-and-gold autumn, their first in The Gap, Doris wassoothed strangely to a state of perfect relaxation--a state not pleasingto Joan, and rather puzzling to David Martin, who postponed a proposedtrip to the West until he felt sure of Doris's health. It seemed that, having dropped the old life, Doris was not merely willing to step into anew one--she was drifting in. Without resistance she floated. She wouldlie for a whole afternoon on the porch watching the play of colour onThe Rock. She smiled, recalling, rather vaguely to be sure, thesuperstitions concerning The Rock. 

It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in theworld!

Mary and Nancy saw to every detail. Joan was frankly interested in everyphase of the experience. "It might be, " mused Doris from her pillows, "that having left everything to that Power that does control, I am tohave my heart's deep desire--keep both Joan and Nancy!"

CHAPTER IX

"_I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, norcount the pang; dare, never grudge the throe. _"

No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen. It was the oldnursery problem re-acted. 

Joan had tired of her game, had used all the material at hand, and wasburning to be on the adventurous trail. 

The old restlessness and defiance were singing in the girl's blood;mockery rang in her voice and that wonderful laugh of hers. She wasabout to smash into the safe joyousness of things as they were! Shethreatened Nancy's toys. And Mary, alone, took heed. Joan herself wasunconscious. She always was of her changing mood; she simply realizedthat she was lost; somehow, astray. 

And Nancy, looking mutely in Mary's eyes, seemed to say:

"It will all be so lonely; so terrible with Joan gone!"

That was it. The old fear of, or for, Joan had materialized--it was Lifewith Joan left out!

"And why should one have so much and the other so little?" asked Mary ofthat deep knowledge in her busy brain. "Why shouldn't they sharealike--and twins at that!"

Then Mary stopped short in her thinking. Her own words took her back, back to a dark night--she was peering, aided by a dim light from within, at a baby lying in the arms of----

Mary drew her breath sharp; her thin, flat bosom heaved and her fingersclutched her gown. 

David Martin had so far classified his perplexity concerning Doris as toname it "Southern fever. "

"Hookworm?" Joan broke in gleefully. 

Martin frowned but did not reply. 

"Doris, " he turned to the couch, "I must go out West. " She understood. Martin never spoke openly about his family affairs. Until he was surerof that nephew of his he kept him in the background. 

"Yes, David. " Doris smiled up at him. 

"I want you to promise me that you will take more exercise!" Martinsaid. 

"Why, certainly, David, but I thought you wanted me to--to rest. "

"I do--but you are rested. I do not want you to enjoy resting. It'sdangerous. "

"Oh! bully for you, Uncle David, " Joan broke in, delightedly, "AuntDorrie is just plain flopping and Nan and Mary are abetting her. "

For some reason Martin turned to Joan, not Nancy who was standingpatiently by. 

"Joan, get your aunt on horseback--lead up to it, of course--and goslow. "

"But--Uncle David----" Nancy drew near. Her kingdom was threatened. 

"My dear, " Martin always melted to Nancy, "after Joan gets her onhorseback, _you_ ride with her. "

And so Doris got off her couch, rather dazedly, as one thinking his legshave been shot off finds them still attached to him. 

She had been actually letting go! She, of all people, and just whenthere was so much to do--so long as she had strength to do it!

It was December when Martin started for the West and Joan's restlessnessgained power. 

Christmas rather eased the situation, for with it Father Noble appeared. 

He startled Doris as Uncle Jed had, by his persistence. 

"They cannot be as old as they look, " she concluded, and gladly enteredinto all the plans for carrying sunshine and joy into the deep places ofthe hills. 

"Dear me, dear me!" explained Father Noble, whose memory of her was soblurred that Doris did not venture to refer to it in detail; "I thoughtwhen the Sisters went away this beautiful old house would fall intodisuse. It is a great happiness to feel its welcome once more. "

Then the old man raised his hat from his silvered head and, standing soin the doorway, besought a blessing "on them who waited but to do Hiswill. "

Joan and Nancy rode with him back into the clearings; they revelled init all and carried out every suggestion offered. They learned, throughFather Noble's interpretation, to ignore the stolid indifference of thepeople; they played for, not with, the shy children, and distributedmarvellous toys that were limply held in small hands that were yet tolearn the blessed sense of ownership. 

"When you are gone, " Father Noble explained and chuckled delightedly, "they will watch the trails for your coming back. They never forget;they are worth the saving--but one must have faith and patience. "

Then January settled down in The Gap. The short days were full of cloudsand shadows; the river ran sullenly, and with greater need for sympathyJoan made ready to demolish Nancy's toys. She came into the living roomone morning in her riding togs. She was splashed with mud and her facewas dull except for the wide, burning eyes. 

Nancy was weaving at the window--Mary had taught her, and she gave theimpression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood. 

Around the fire lay four hound puppies--they had taken the place ofdolls in Nancy's affections. As Joan entered the dogs raised theirabsurd heads and with their flappy ears and padded paws patted the floorin welcome. 

"Where is Aunt Dorrie?" asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deepchair. 

"In the chapel, " Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woofand warp. 

"I wish Aunt Dorrie would have that room sealed!" Joan spokeill-naturedly; "I know it's haunted. If we don't look out the ghostswill ooze over the whole house. Ooh!"

Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty. The clacking noiseemphasized Joan's nervousness. 

"Aunt Dorrie doesn't know what to do here--that's why she takes to thechapel. That's why everyone takes to chapels. "

Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed. 

"I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?" Thelaugh still persisted in the mocking words. 

"It's--it's quite the thing, " Nancy said, fatuously, "to have countryplaces. I think it's wonderful. "

"You may not be able to help being a snob, Nan, but don't be a prig. "Joan's words struck hurtingly. Then suddenly her mood changed. 

"Forgive me, snow-child, " she whispered, going close to Nancy. "I'm abeast. Isn't it queer to be conscious, now and then, of the beast inyou?"

"Please don't, Joan, dear. Please don't talk and act so. " Nancy's eyeswere blinded by tears. 

"Very well, then, I will be good. " Joan flung herself in a chair andpresently asked curiously:

"Nan, what are you going to do when you've done all the things down heremillions of times?"

"There will always be new duties, " Nancy ventured. 

"Duties! Oh! Nan, surely you're too young to play with duties--you'llhurt yourself. " The mockery again entered in. 

Just then Jed stumbled into the room with an armful of wood. His blearedeyes clung to Nancy's face and he nearly fell over a rug. 

When he went out Joan seemed to follow him. She spoke musingly as ifvoicing her thoughts:

"It's terrible for anything as old as that to be running around, " shesaid. "It isn't decent. He ought to be tucked up in his nice littlegrave. He looks as if he'd been forgotten. "

"Joan, you are wicked--you make me afraid!" Nancy came from the loom andcrouched by Joan. 

"Snow-child, again forgive me!" Joan bent and drew Nancy's fair head toher knee. "But oh! I am so--so utterly lost. "

"Joan, what is it? What is the matter?"

"I don't know, Nan. " Joan was looking into the fire--seeking; seeking. "Things that quiet you and Aunt Dorrie just drive me on to the rocks. Ifeel as if I'd be wrecked if I didn't steer well out into the open. Andwhen I get as far as that, I know that I couldn't find my way out evenif--if everything let go of me. I suppose I would sink. This isn't myplace, Nan, but I don't know where my place is! I feel sure I have aplace, everyone has--but where is mine?"

There was desperation in the words, the desperation of helpless youth. No perspective, no light or shade, but terrible vision. 

"Joan, darling, why can you not wait until you see the way?" Nancy wasprepared now for battle. 

"That's it, Nan. I can't. All I can do is to push off the rocks--thenI'll have to sink or swim. This is killing me!"

Joan flung her head back as if she were choking. 

And just then Mary came into the room. 

A gray shawl, home-spun--it was made from the wool of Mary's ownsheep--was clutched over her thin body; a huge quilted hood--Maryherself had quilted it--half hid her dark, expressionless face. 

"I met the postman, " she announced, "as I came along. He give me this!"

Mary held a letter out to Joan and passed from the room. 

The moment, while Joan glanced at the letter, had power to grip Nancy'simagination and fill it with a vision. 

As sure as she ever saw anything, she saw Joan going away! Going away asshe had never gone before. Going to a Far Country. 

"Whom is the letter from?" she faltered, and Joan tore open the envelopewhile her eyes drank in the words. 

"It is from Sylvia Reed, Nan. Her dream has come true. She has herstudio--she wants me!"

"Joan, you will not go--you must not!" All that Nancy dared to put inher plea she put in it then. 

"Why not?" asked Joan impressed. "Why not, Nan?"

"Aunt Dorrie----" Nancy's words ended in a sob. 

"Aunt Dorrie shall decide. "

And with that Joan, her face radiant, her breath coming quick, walkedfrom the room and on, on to the little chapel upstairs. 

Doris was sitting by the window. The day was going to be clear at itsclose, and a rift in the sullen clouds showed the gold behind; the lightlay in a straight line across the chapel floor. 

Doris was not in a depressed mood. She often sat for an hour in thequiet place. She took her tenderest treasures of thought there. She hadbeen thinking that afternoon of David Martin. How wise he was! What afriend! How he understood her! How unworthy she was of the richness thatflooded her life!

It was then that Joan came in. She did not go close to Doris--thephysical touch was not the first impulse with either of them. 

"Aunt Dorrie, I have a letter from Sylvia Reed. "

Instantly Doris was stirred as Nancy had been. Mentally she braced. Sherecalled vividly Sylvia Reed, Joan's particular friend at MissPhillips's. The girl had genius where Joan had talent. She had inheritedenough to take her comfortably through school, had a small incomebesides, but she would have to work and win her way to the success shepromised. Sylvia's ambition was only equalled by her belief in herselfand her eagerness to prove it to others. She was a few years older thanJoan, and a girl of remarkable character and sweetness. 

"She wants me, Aunt Dorrie. She wants me to come to her. She has astudio in New York; not down in that part of the city which Uncle Daviddoesn't like, the place where he says folks show off with the windowshades up. Sylvia is in the safe uptown where the _real_ thing is!"

The eagerness in Joan's hurrying voice made Doris smile. The girl wastrying to clear all obstacles away before coming to the point. That washer way. 

"Why, Aunt Dorrie, Sylvia has two orders for book covers, already, besides twelve hundred a year!"

The letter had been packed with ammunition and Joan was using itrecklessly. 

"Just listen, Aunt Dorrie. "

And Joan spread the letter on her knee; her hands were trembling as shepatted it open. 

"This is what Sylvia says:

 The Studio is perfect--north side full of windows; south side full of fireplace; your room and mine on the east; stars and sunlight on tap from the windows. We are on top of the city and nothing hinders our view. We walk up and none come but those worthy of us--come, Joan, you always said that you would. 

 Your future will be blasted unless you break away from your rich relatives. Nothing is such a curse as that which prevents you proving yourself; you remember about the poem which dealt with proving your soul?--how you spouted it. I know that you are gifted, child, but the world doesn't. If we fail, you at least can, after you pay proper respects to my remains, go back to that adorable aunt of yours and flop in the lap of luxury--but make the attempt to reach glory first. 

 I suppose Nan will raise a ladylike dust--but come! Come empty-handed--it's the only honest way. Come prepared to eat your bread by the sweat of your brow--or go hungry. 

 I bet your aunt will see the squareness of this offer if you put it right. Come!

The light broadened outside--the little chapel was flooded with thegolden glow. 

Even while her heart sank and grew heavy, Doris was moved with an almostterrible understanding of the girl across the room. She wanted to pushher on her way instead of holding her back, and at the same time shewas striving to clutch her as she went her way. 

Yes, that was it. Joan was already started; nothing could hold herback--but still the battle waged, while Doris smiled tremblingly. 

"I know, Aunt Dorrie, I know. It hurts--but--but--oh! listen, dear. Thisseems my chance; perhaps it isn't--but I can never know until I try. Dearie--I will do just what you say. I will, and I will think you right. I want so much to try and find out what is in me that I--I cannot seeclear. "

For a moment Doris could not see the girl across the room. The sunlightfell full on her, and hid her, rather than revealed her. 

"I'll try to be worthy of your faith in me, darling. Go on. " Doris spokequietly. 

They did not come together physically, these two. They felt no need ofthe affectionate human contact; it was more one soul reaching out toanother with courage and honesty. 

Doris listened, following closely. People and places became visualizedas Joan spoke. Sylvia Reed with her strong, purposeful face and eyes ofa young prophet; the new nest of genius where the brave creature, believing in herself, waited for another in whom she trusted and forwhom she held a deep-founded affection. Doris felt her way insilence--relinquishing, loving, fearing, but never blinded. She knew themoment's pain of disappointment caused by the realization that with allher love and riches she had not, for the time being, anything to offerthis untried soul that could lure it from its vision. 

Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in theroom:

"If this means anything it means that it must be met in the spirit withwhich Sylvia is meeting it. She has risked all; is willing to pay theprice--are you?"

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie. "

"You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everythingon you?"

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie. "

"You understand that if I leave you free to meet this chance in its onlytrue way--the hard, struggling way--it is not because I desire to sickenyou of it and so regain you for Nancy and me?"

"Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that. "

"I'm sure you do, child, or you would not be here. And so I set youfree, little Joan, I wish you luck and success, but if you find thechance is not your chance, my darling, will you come as frankly to me asyou have come to-night?"

"Yes--yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you are--well--there is no word for you, butI feel as if you were my mother and I'd just--found you! You'll neverseem quite the same, Aunt Dorrie--though that always seemed good enough. Why"--And here Joan slipped to her feet and danced lightly in the sunnyroom tossing her hair and swaying gracefully--"why, I'm free to faileven if I must--fail or succeed--and you understand and love me anddon't begrudge me my freedom--you are setting me free and not evendisapproving. "

The dance in that sanctuary did not seem incongruous; Doris watched themotion as she might a figment loose in the sunlight. It was as much aprayer of thanks as any ever uttered in the peaceful place. 

CHAPTER X

"_Hopes and disappointments, and much need of philosophy. _"

A week later Joan started for New York, a closely packed suitcase in herhand, a closely packed trunk in the baggage car ahead, and some hurtingmemories to bear her company on the way. 

Memories of Nancy's tears. 

How Nancy could cry--once the barriers were down!

And worse than Nancy's tears were Doris's smiles. 

Joan understood the psychology of smiles--as she remembered, her proudhead was lowered and she was surprised to find that _she_ was sheddingtears. 

"But it's all part of the price of freedom!" At last Joan dried hereyes. "And I'm willing to pay. "

So Joan travelled alone up to town, and it was a wet, slippery nightwhen she raised the knocker on Sylvia Reed's green-painted door and letit fall. 

The door opened at once and disclosed the battle-ground of young genius. The old room was dim, for Sylvia had been toasting bacon and bread bythe open fire and she needed no more light than the coals gave. Sylviawore a smock and her hair was down her back. She looked about twelveuntil she fixed her eyes upon you, then she looked old; too old for agirl of twenty-four. 

"Joan! Joan!" was all she said as she drew Joan in. Then, after astruggle, "Do you mind if I--sob?"

"No, I'm going to do it myself. " And Joan proceeded to do so andremembered Nancy. 

"I'm so--happy!" she gulped. "I was never so happy in my life. I feel asif I'd got hatched, broken through the shell!"

"You have, " cried Sylvia, unevenly. "We're going to--to conquereverything! Come in your room, Joan, shed as much as you like. Iexpected you this morning. I have only bacon and eggs--shall we go outto eat?"

"Go out? Heavens, no! And I adore bacon and eggs. Sylvia, I have edgedinto glory!"

"You have, Joan--edged in, that's about it. "

After the meal before the fire they cleared things away, and then theytalked far into the night. Sylvia had already laid emphasis upon hersmall order. 

"And really, Joan, that's great, " she explained; "many a girl has towait longer. Some day I'm going to be hung in the best exhibitions intown, but as a starter a magazine is nothing to be sneered at. I'mmodelling, too--I have a duck of an idea for a frieze--only I'm nottelling anybody about that--it's too ambitious. What are you going todo, Joan?" This sudden question made Joan stare. 

"I--I don't know, " she replied, frankly, but with no shade ofdespondency. "I'll take a look around to-morrow and, then pack my littlewares in my basket and peddle them, as you have done. If anybody wants adancer--here I am! Anybody want funny little songs sung?--here's yourgirl! I seem to have only samples. I can be adaptable. That's my bigasset. " They both laughed, but Sylvia soon grew serious. Her shortservice in reality had already sobered her. It was one thing for thegifted young girl of a fashionable school to watch the impression shemade by her wits upon people who were paying high for just suchexhibitions, and quite another to convince buyers of goods that theywere what you believed them to be. 

"The public is a tightwad, " was what she muttered presently, "unlessyou're willing to compromise or--prove it to them. "

"I--I don't know what you mean, " Joan replied. She was groping after thething that had made Sylvia's eyes grow old. 

"Well, all you need to know, Joan, my lamb, is to prove it tothem--never compromise!" Sylvia was herself again. Too well she knewthe value of starting out with one's shield bright and shining even ifone had to come home _on_ it, all rusted with one's life blood. 

Things were not yet very tragic for Sylvia, and her shield was in goodcondition, but she had an imagination and a keen sense ofself-protection. 

"We're going to be the happiest pair in town, " she whispered to Joanlater that night as she bent over the tired girl; "and was there eversuch a spot to live in? See, I'm going to raise your shade high, for thenight is splendid and--the stars! Go to sleep with the stars watchingyou, old girl, and you're all right. "

Joan slept heavily, dreamlessly, and awoke to--more bacon and eggs withhot rolls and coffee added. 

"I'm going to float about a bit to-day, " she said, and her feet werefairly dancing. "I've only known New York before holding to AuntDorrie's hand or my nurse's. Today I'm going to go back alone andthen--catch up with myself. "

Suddenly she began to sing her old graduation song:

 "I'll sail upon the Dog-star I'll sail upon the Dog-star; I'll chase the moon, till it be noon, But I'll make her leave her horning. 

 "I'll climb the frosty mountain And there I'll coin the weather. I'll tear the rainbow from the sky And tie both ends together. "

Sylvia leaned back, clapping and laughing. This was as it should be. Fun, youth, gaiety. She went to her easel in the north room, hummingJoan's old ballad, and never did better work in her life than she didthat day. 

Joan sallied forth equally happy and her past, thank heaven, had beenbrief enough and rosy enough to make the tying of the ends nothing but ajoyous task. She rode downtown on top of a bus. The crisp air stung andrallied her. She longed to sing from the swaying vehicle--she felt as ifshe were on top of the world and that it was keeping time to the tuneshe wanted to sing. She looked so lovely that the conductor grinneddelightedly as he remarked:

"Snappy weather, miss!" and Joan nodded in friendly fashion and agreed. She walked to the old home, standing with drawn blinds by the little, close-locked park. It looked stately and reserved as one of the familymight have done. It smilingly held its tongue. 

"I'd like to see the sunken room and the fountain, " Joan thought. "Icannot imagine it with the fountain and the birds still. They will neverbe still for me!"

She was a bit surprised to feel how far she had travelled from the Joanwho was part of Nancy and the sunken room. It was quite shocking to findthat she was not missing Nancy. She wondered if she were heartless andselfish? But after all, how could one be missed from a life in which shehad never, could never, have part? And full well Joan realized that inthis big venture of hers the old, except as a stepping-stone, wasseparated forever. 

"If I become famous"--and Joan, tripping along, felt as if fame were aspossible for her as the luncheon she was now feeling the need of--"if Ibecome famous then they will understand, but even then my life andtheirs will be different. "

This point of view made Joan feel important, tragic, but desolate. 

"I'm hungry, " she thought, seriously, and made her way to a restaurant, where once she had gone with Doris while on a wonderful shoppingexpedition. The place was little changed; it had passed into otherhands, but the menu proudly proclaimed the same enticing dishes. 

Joan ordered what once had seemed the food of the gods, but to her nowit was as chaff. 

Across the table, made dim by her misty eyes, she seemed to see Dorissmiling fondly, faithfully, at her. Doris's power over people waslargely due to that faith she had in them. 

"And I will be all you want me to be, Aunt Dorrie!" Joan promised thatwhile she choked down the food. "I feel as if I were in the bear'shouse, " she mused, whimsically. "I'm half afraid that I'll be pouncedupon. "

And so she paid her bill and went back, via the bus, to Sylvia. She ranup the long flights of stairs and burst in upon Sylvia with theannouncement that "nothing would count if you didn't have someone tocome home and tell it to. " And then she forgot her glooms while theyprepared an evening meal more conservative than bacon and eggs. 

"Yes, my beloved, " Sylvia returned as she plunged a wicked-lookinglittle knife into the heart of a grapefruit: "And that accounts for halfthe marriages in life. " Sylvia was refraining, just then, from tellingof her own engagement. She wanted and needed Joan for the present--hersecret would keep. 

"You funny old Syl, " Joan flung back over her shoulder as she drew thecurtain over the closet that screened the housekeeping skeletons fromthe wonderful studio. "We won't have to resort to marriage, anyway. We've solved the eternal question!"

"Exactly! And now give those chops a twist. Thank the Lord, we both lovethem crisp. "

The experiment in a few days had Joan by the throat. So utterly had shethrown herself into it, so almost unbelievably had Doris Fletcherpermitted her to do so, that it took on all the attributes of realityand demanded nothing less than obedience to its laws, or surrender todefeat. 

Doris had given Joan, when she came North, a check for five hundreddollars. Upon reaching Sylvia she had, after paying her expenses, that, and fifty dollars in cash left. 

It had seemed boundless wealth for the first few days and continued toseem so until the necessity for bringing the check into action faced thegirl. 

"I must find something to do!" she vowed as she made her way to the bankwhere she had deposited the check. "No more fooling around. "

Sylvia made no suggestions; never appeared to be anything but satisfiedwith things as they were. The companionship, the feeling of _home_ thatJoan had introduced into her life, were deep joys to the girl who, likemany women who know not the art of making a home, are soul-sick for theblessings of one. 

"I'd work till my last tube ran dry, " she thought to herself, standingat the wide north window, "if I could keep her singing and dancing aboutand--getting meals!"

Joan did not interfere with Sylvia's profession--she gave it newmeaning--but Sylvia realized that Joan was interfering with her own. Still, Sylvia was never one to usurp the rights of a Higher Power, andat twenty-four she was intensely, shamefacedly religious and absolutelylacking in desire to shape the ends of others. 

"The thing that's meant for her will slap her in the face soon, " Sylviacomforted herself. "And she's such a wonder!"

But if Sylvia refrained from nudging Joan on her course, even to theextent of opening her eyes to sign-posts, others were not so obliging. Into Sylvia's studio youth, in its various forms of expression, floatednaturally. Sylvia attracted women more than men, but her girl friendsbrought their male comrades with them and everybody was welcome toanything that Sylvia had. Fortunately most of the young people werehonestly striving to earn their living; they were sweetly, proudlyunafraid, but when they relaxed and played they made Joan's eyes widen, until she discovered that they often dressed their ideas, as they didthemselves, rather startlingly while adhering, privately, to arespectability that they refused to make public. 

They were, on the whole, a joyous lot belonging to that new class whichcauses older and more conservative folk to hold their breath as peopledo who watch children walking near a precipice and dare not call out forfear of worse danger. 

The women attracted and interested Joan immensely. The men amazed her. 

"You see, " she confided to Sylvia, "the men seem like a new sex--neithermen nor women. "

Sylvia stood off regarding her work--she smiled happily and replied:

"They are, dear lamb. The girls will all, eventually, put on; fillup"--Sylvia added a dab of clay to a doubtful curve--"but men, when theychip off from the approved design, look like nothing on earth butdaubs!"

"Yes, " Joan added, "that's what I mean. " Then, with a thoughtfulpuckering of the brows, "the girls will be women, somehow, but what willbecome of these--this new sex, Syl?"

Sylvia was tense as she eyed her work. She answered vaguely:

"Some of them will crawl up, and _do_ things and justify themselves, theothers will----"

"Will what, Syl?"--for Sylvia was moving like a panther upon herprey--her prey being the small figure on the pedestal. 

"Do this--or have it done for them!" and at this the offending clay wasdashed to atoms. 

"Failure!" breathed Sylvia--"mess!"

Then with characteristic quickness she began a new design. Joan watchedher and caught a sudden insight. She realized what it was that markedSylvia for success. Presently she asked musingly:

"Does any one ever marry these--these men, Syl?"

"Heavens, no! They only play with them; don't get confused on that line, lamb. "

"Don't worry about me, Syl. I don't even want to play with them. Syl, Ido not think I shall ever marry. I'm like Aunt Dorrie, but if I evershould marry it would be something to help one grip life, not somethingto--to--well, haul along!"

Sylvia turned and eyed Joan. 

"My pet lamb, " she remarked, "you are all right! Make sure that no oneside-tracks you--give them half, but no more. And, Joan, run along now, child, and get dinner. "

A few days later Sylvia broke into Joan's revery by the smoulderingfire. It was a gray, cold day and Joan's spirits were at low tide. 

She had not been successful in any venture as yet, and so vivid was herimagination, so sincere her determination to play fair, that starvationand early death seemed the most likely objects on her mental horizon. She had eliminated Doris and Nancy as life-preservers--they figured onlyas blessed memories in a past that was not yet regretted but which wasfast fading into a black present. 

"Joan, my darling, suppose you come to the rescue. My model has goneback on me--let me see you dance! My model had sand bags on her feetyesterday, anyhow, and my beautiful figure looks as if it had thebeginnings of paralysis. "

Joan sprang up. Instantly she was aglow and trembling with delight. 

"Here, take this balloon, " ordered Sylvia, "it is still gassy enough tofloat--it's a bubble, you know. "

Through the room Joan floated after the elusive ball. Sylvia watched herwith a light breaking over her own face. 

"Great, great!" she cried from her corner, "go it, Joan, you're the realthing!"

Joan was not listening. What her eyes saw were the figures in thefountain of the sunken room. She was one of them again--the story wascoming true! It was no longer a golden balloon she was touching, fondling, reaching for, tossing--it was sparkling water, and birdsseemed singing in the big north studio. 

At last it was over. On Sylvia's canvas the figure appeared to haveundergone a marvellous change by a few rapid and bewitched strokes. Thesand-bag impression had been removed--the figure was alive!

"Syl, dear, you are wonderful!"

Joan came and stood close. "What have you done to it?"

"Put you in it. Or, " here Sylvia tossed her palette aside and caughtJoan by the shoulders, "you've put yourself in me. I've a line on youropportunity, Joan, it came to me like a flash of inspiration. I hope youare game. "

"I'm game, all right, " Joan returned, quietly. She was thinking of hernext visit to the bank. 

"Dress your prettiest, my lamb. Look success from head to foot and thengo to the address I'll give you. I have a friend, Elspeth Gordon, whois opening a tea room. She may not think you necessary to her scheme ofthings, she's Scotch and terribly thrifty, with a dash of nearness, butyou tell her that _I_ say you'll be the making of her. "

Joan laughed and darted away to array herself in her best. 

"What am I supposed to do there?" she asked. Her brightness and gaietyhad returned. 

"Oh! any one of your accomplishments. Of course it was merely a matterof making things jibe. Elspeth only telephoned about the tea room thismorning. "

"You mean I am to wait on tables or cook?" asked Joan, somewhat daunted. 

"Lord, child, no! Here, wait. On second thought, I'll go with you. Imight have known you couldn't put it over. Watch me!"

Sylvia was worth watching as she pulled her tam o' shanter over herhead, her face all aglow. 

"I've undervalued your 'samples, ' as you call them, my lamb, " shechatted on. "Of course you must take lessons and be a legitimatesomething some day--a singer, I fancy, but in the meantime we mustutilize what we have. "

On the way through the frosty streets Sylvia grew more mystifying. 

"It's putting the _punch_ in these days that counts, Joan. You are tobe--the punch. Eats are all right in their way, but folks do not live bybread alone; they flourish--or tea rooms do--on punch. "

Joan, running along beside Sylvia, accepted the rambling talk withoutquestion. Her acquaintance with tea rooms was limited, but she hadcaught Sylvia's mood. 

"Just imagine, " Sylvia was a bit breathless; "a cold, dreary afternoonoutside--a warm, bright tea room with enchanting tables drawn close toan open fire, and someone--you, my lamb--singing a ballad, when there isa lull--in the offings! Why, Elspeth is as good as _made_ if she has thewit to grab you--and Elspeth is no fool. "

Joan began to see the opening ahead. 

"Oh!" she drawled--the word lasted a half block and ended in a mockinglaugh. 

"Could I dance in costume?" she asked, tossing her head, "or tellfortunes as I used to at school? Do you remember, Syl, how I went to thekitchen door, once, and took the maids all in, and then Miss Tibbettscame down to see what was going on, and I read her palm--and----" buthere Joan stopped short physically. "What's the matter, Syl?" she said. 

"Why, of course!" Sylvia was regarding Joan impartially. "They mightobject to having you break in on their silly tea-talk, the police mightraid the place if you danced--but palm reading! Oh! my dear, you'vestruck it in the dark. Hurry!"

And hurry they did, arriving at the Bonny Brier Bush a few minutes laterin rather a breathless but radiant state. 

The proprietress, Elspeth Gordon, was a tall, slender woman, no longeryoung, but carrying herself with a dignity that amounted almost tomajesty. She was gowned in crisp lavender linen with immaculate whitecollars and cuffs and was standing in the middle of her Big Experiment, as she termed it, when Joan and Sylvia burst in. 

"All ready but the opening of the door--legitimately, " she said, smilingon Sylvia and bowing cordially to Joan. "Doesn't it look inviting?" Shegave a broad glance to the sweet, orderly room: the small tables, glasscovered; the rose-chintz covers and draperies; the clear fire on thebroad, old-fashioned hearth, and the blossoming rose bushes on thewindow sills. 

"It certainly does, " Sylvia replied with enthusiasm. 

"I've put everything I own into this venture, " Elspeth went on; "if Ifail, I'm done for. "

For all her years of discretion and her plain common sense, ElspethGordon's mouth and tone betrayed the artistic temperament. Upon thatSylvia was banking. 

"I have a splendid cook--a Scotch woman. I'm going to specialize onscones, and oat cakes, and such things, but oh! it is the opening of thedoor and the awful days of waiting until the public finds out!"

"Exactly!" Sylvia nodded and Joan stared. "You'll have to lure thepublic, Elspeth, there's no doubt about that. Tea rooms are no noveltythese days. You'll have to tease it with a bait, and the rest is easy. 

"Now, my dear, here's your bait!" With this, Sylvia turned so sharplyupon Joan that Elspeth started nervously and regarded her guest as shemight have a tempting worm: something possibly necessary, but which shehesitated to touch. 

"She can read--palms!"

"Oh! Syl----" Joan panted, but Sylvia scowled her to silence. 

"She can read palms, " she repeated, holding Elspeth by her firm tone; "alittle more reading up, a bit of experience, and she'll work wonders. She doesn't know it, but she's psychic--of course this is going to befun; not real. Just a lure. We'll have Joan in a long white robe--a girlI know can design it. We'll have a filmy veil over the lower part of herface--mystery, you know. Look at her eyes, Elspeth, aren't they great?Give that 'into-the-future' stare, Joan!"

Joan rose to the fun of it all. She grasped the possibilities, butElspeth faltered. 

"I don't want to be--ridiculous, " she said, slowly. "I'm quite serious, and my food is going to be above question. "

"Of course! And if you think Joan will make you ridiculous, you've gotanother guess coming, Elspeth. Now, when do you open?"

"I have planned to open day after to-morrow. " Elspeth spokehesitatingly, keeping her cool, businesslike glance on Joan. 

"All right, " Sylvia was tapping her fingers restlessly; "that'sThursday. I'll get a girl I know to work on the costume to-night; we'llbuy books on palmistry on our way home. We'll give you just four days tolure your public with scones, and then if you don't call Joan up, she'llstart a tea room herself across the way. "

This made them all laugh, but there was an earnestness in their eyes. 

And on Sunday night Elspeth spoke over the telephone. 

"Could you come to-morrow at two, Miss Thornton?"

Joan, sitting close to the telephone, winked at Sylvia. They had allbeen sitting up nights working, reading, and praying for that question. 

"I think so, " was the reply in quite an unmoved and businesslike tone. 

"And remember, Joan, " Sylvia cautioned later, "this is but a means tofit you for a profession!"

"I'll remember, " Joan twinkled, "in the meantime, I am going to enjoymyself. "

CHAPTER XI

"_Let us live happily, free from care among the busy. _"

There was one of Sylvia's friends who, from the first, caught and heldJoan's imagination. That was Patricia Leigh. 

Patricia rarely got further than the imagination--after that she wasidealized or suspected according to the person dealing with her. 

Joan idealized Patricia--"Pat, " she was always called. 

The girl was fair and delicately frail, but never ill. She wrote verse, when moved to do so, and did it excellently, and she never thought of itas poetry. 

When she was not moved to verse--and she had a good market for it--shedesigned the most astonishing garments for her friends. She could, atany time, have secured a fine position in this line and was frequentlyturning away offers. When the designing palled upon Pat she fell backupon her personal charm and enjoyed herself!

Patricia had, outwardly, a blood-curdling philosophy which she franklyavowed she believed in, absolutely, though Sylvia warned Joan that itwas "bunk!"

What really was the case was this: Patricia was an adept at playing withfire. Lightly she tossed the flame from hand to hand; gaily she laughed, but at the critical moment Patricia ran!

She revelled in portraying the fire danger, but she covered her retreatsby masterful silence. 

"My code is this, " she would proclaim: "In passing, snatch! You candiscard at leisure. "

There was no doubt but that Patricia did more than her share ofsnatching. When she played, she played wildly, but she was a coward whenpay time came. 

But who was there to show Patricia in her true light? Her goodqualities, and they were many, pleaded for her. She was too little andsweet to be held to brutal exactions, and she was such a gay, blithesomecreature, at her maddest, that when she ran one felt more likecommending her speed than hurling epithets of scorn at her. 

"If she wasn't a thousand times better than she makes herself out tobe, " Sylvia confided to Joan, "I'd never let her into my studio; but Patis golden at heart, and she ought to be spanked for acting as she does. "

"Hasn't she any family?" asked Joan. "No one whom she may--hurt?"

"That's it, my lamb, she hasn't. Mother died when she was four yearsold; father, an actor, but devoted to her, and insisted upon trottingher around with him. She was confided to the care of cheapboarding-house women; she ran away from school once and travelled milesalone to get to her father, and when he died--Pat was eighteen then--shebegan her career, as she calls it. Snatch and skip!"

"Poor, dear, little Pat!" said Joan, and her eyes filled. 

"There, now!" Sylvia exclaimed, "she's caught your imagination. "

That was true, and by the magic Joan began to see life as Patricia said_she_ saw it: a place of detached opportunities and no obligations. 

"I believe, " Patricia would say, looking her divinest, "that indeveloping ourselves we most serve others. We relieve others of ourresponsibilities; we express ourselves and have no gnawing ambitions tosour us. Self-sacrifice is folly--it makes others mean and selfish, others who may not hold a candle to us for usefulness. Now"--and herePatricia, smoking her cigarette, would look impishly at Sylvia, quiteforgetting Joan--"take, for instance, Teddy Burke!"

"Pat!" Sylvia was in arms, "I will not hear of your actions with Mr. Burke. They're disgraceful. You should be ashamed of them. "

"On the other hand, " Patricia always looked like a young saint, rather awild one, to be sure, when she spoke of Burke, "I'm proud of my defianceof stupid limitations and fogyish ideals. Here is a man, a corker, Joan, with a wife who, acting upon tribal instinct, never dreams that she maybe set aside. She travels the world over, foot loose, but with herlittle paw dug deep in her husband's purse. Here are two ducks ofkiddies living with governesses and nurses over on a Jersey estate andpining for the higher female touch. Here am I with a batch of versesgoing quite innocently into Mr. Burke's office--he's an editor, youknow--and he buys my stuff and howls for more. I grow white and thinproviding more, and in weak moments show my beautiful inner soul to him. He, being a gentleman and an understanding one, asks me out to Jersey, and those children just cram into the hungry corners of my life. Theyplay with me; they--they"--here a subtle touch of truth struck throughPatricia's ironic tones--"they _teach_ me to play. Haven't I a right tosnatch--what was snatched from me?"

Sylvia cried out: "Rot!" But Joan made no reply. 

Often would Sylvia, deeply serious, urge Patricia to turn her talents todesigning. 

"Verses only take you near danger, Pat, dear, " she would say; "and lookat the things you can make for people! Why, dear, you bring out alltheir good points. "

"You would have me stick my precious little soul full of needles andpins? Oh! you black-hearted creature. Not on your life, Syl! Designingis my job--it gets enough for me to fly on--but I mean to fly! And as Ifly, I pause to sip and feed, but fly I must. "

For Joan, Patricia felt a strange attraction. The child that was sopersistent in Joan appealed to Patricia while it irritated her. 

"She'll get hurt if she doesn't grow up!" the girl thought, and began atonce rather crude forcing measures. 

"A professional woman, " she imparted to Joan, "is a different breed fromthe household pet--you must learn to scrimmage for yourself and takewhat helps your profession. You cannot stop and nurse the _you_ of you. One's Art is the thing. Now love helps--love the whole world, Joan, itkeeps you young. Play with it, but don't make the mistake of letting ittake you in. The thing that threatens Sylvia is her--Plain John!"

Joan and Patricia laughed now. Sylvia's love affair was tenderlyold-fashioned. Her man was on the Pacific Coast, making ready for her;she was going to keep right on with her work--her John had planned herstudio before he had the house!

"'Love and fly!' is my motto, " Patricia rambled on; "fly while theflying is good. Get your wings clipped, and where are you? Sylvia willhave children and they will mess up her studio and her career--and lookat her promise!" It was Patricia that had forced Sylvia's engagementinto the open. 

In some vague way Patricia felt that she was educating Joan, notweakening her foundations; but gradually Joan succumbed to thephilosophy of snatch-and-fly, and the Brier Bush gave ample opportunityfor her to practise it. 

From the first she was a success. In her loose, flowing robe ofwhite--Patricia had wrought that with inspiration--she was a witchingfigure. The filmy veil over the lower part of her face did but emphasizethe beauty and size of her golden eyes. The lovely bronze hair wascoiled gracefully around the little head, and after a week or so thegravity with which she read palms gave the play a real touch ofinterest. 

People dropped in, sipped tea, and paid well to play with the prettydisguised young creature who was "guessing so cleverly. " They departedand sent, or brought, others. The Brier Bush became popular andsuccessful; Elspeth Gordon secured for it a most respectable standing. 

"Why, Miss Gordon is the granddaughter of a bishop!" it was whispered, "and take my word for it that little priestess there with her is eithera professional, finding the game lucrative, or a society girl out on alark behind a screen. "

Most people believed the latter conjecture was true and then the BrierBush became fashionable. 

Joan reaped what seemed to her a harvest, for Elspeth was as just as shewas canny. 

"After a year, " Joan promised Sylvia, "I will begin to study musicseriously. Why, I have decided to specialize, Syl--English and Scotchballads"; and then off she rippled on her "Dog-star"--the song was afavourite in the studio; so was the Bubble Dance. 

 * * * * *

And about this time Joan's letters to Ridge House made the hearts therelighter. 

"A job!" Nancy repeated, reading the announcement of Joan's success. 

"I thought only workingmen had jobs. And in a restaurant, too! AuntDorrie, I don't think you ought to let Joan do such things. "

"Joan is earning her living, " Doris said, calmly, though her heart beatquicker. "These fad things are often successes, financially, and I cantrust Joan perfectly. "

Christmas was a disappointment. 

"I cannot leave this year, Aunt Dorrie, " Joan wrote; "this is our busytime. Next year I will be free and studying music. "

Doctor Martin was to have been back from the West, but was detained, soNancy and Doris again helped Father Noble with his hill people, and Marycame over to Ridge House and decorated the rooms to surprise them whenthey came back from the longest trip of all. 

Doris had discarded, largely, her couch. With her inward anxiety aboutJoan to be controlled, she was more at ease in action and it was goodfor her. 

Nancy's devotion was taken for granted, as was her happiness. What morecould Nancy want?

It was Mary who resented this. 

"'Tain't fair!" she muttered as she went about her self-imposed tasks, "'tain't fair. " And scowlingly Mary still bided her time. 

Early in the new year David Martin returned from the West bearing abouthim the impression of battle crowned by victory. He was jovial andboyishly delighted with Doris's improvement. 

"I haven't long to stay, " he confided to her, "but I had to see howthings were going here before I settled down in New York. Nancy looksfine! She's happy, too. " This to Nancy, who was fondling the pups by thefire. 

"Well, then, how about Joan?"

Doris, her hands folded in her lap, did not reply. 

At this Martin took to striding up and down the long, sunny room. Thethought of Nancy rested him; Joan always irritated him. 

"When is she coming back?" he asked suddenly. 

"She's got----" Nancy hesitated at the word; "she's got a job. She won'tcome home until she's lost that. "

Martin turned on Doris a perplexed and awakened face. 

"What's this?" His voice had the ring of the primitive male. 

"Well, you know Joan is with Sylvia Reed, David. You remember that girlwho painted so beautifully at Dondale? Sylvia has a studio, now, and isregularly launched. She's doing extremely good work. Nan, show DoctorMartin that magazine cover that Sylvia did. "

David took the magazine indifferently from the obedient Nancy anddropped it at once. 

"Who's looking after them?" he inquired, leaping, in his deadly rigidway, over much debatable ground. 

"They're looking after themselves, David. " Doris metaphorically got intoposition for a severe bout. 

"You don't mean, " Martin came close and glowered over Doris, "you cannotpossibly mean that Joan is going in for that loose, smudgy stunt thatsome girls are doing down in that part of town known as Every Man'sLand?"

Nancy ran to the window and bent over her loom. She was alwaysfrightened when David Martin looked as if he were going to perform anoperation. 

"Certainly not, " Doris replied; "the girls have a place uptown in aperfectly respectable quarter. Joan shares the expense. This is veryreal and fine, David. And you are not going to blame me for permittingJoan to do this--it was the only thing to be done. The girl has a rightto her life and the use of her talents; this was an opening that wecould not ignore. Sylvia Reed is older than Joan. "

"How much?" David's voice was like steel. 

"Four years. " In spite of her anxiety, Doris had to laugh. 

"Is this a joke, Doris?" Martin was confused. 

"Why, no, David, it isn't. "

"Were you mad, Doris? Why, don't you know that many girls are simplycrooked while they call themselves emancipated? I am amazed at you. Howdid you dare! Have you thought what an injustice you've done the girl?Keeping her in cotton wool, feeding her on specialized food, and thenletting her loose among--among garbage pails?"

Nancy fled from the room. The operation was on!

Doris got up and linked her arm in David's--they paced the floor slowly, getting control of themselves as they went. Presently Doris spoke:

"You see, dear, I have always held certain beliefs--I have always beenwilling to test them--and pay. "

"But dare you let Joan pay?" Martin was calm now. 

"Not for mine, but for her own--yes. Aren't you going to let this boy ofyours try his own flight, David?"

"That's different. "

"It won't be always, David, dear--someone must make the break--our dearyoung things in the big cities are breasting the waves, David. I gloryin them, and even while I tremble, I urge them on. You should have seenJoan when she came to me with her great desire burning and throbbing. Why, it would have been murder to kill in her what I saw in her eyesthen. It was her _Right_ demanding to be free. "

"It's the maddest thing I ever heard of!" Martin broke in. "I wonder ifyou have counted the cost, Doris?"

"Yes, David, through many long days and wakeful nights. I have shudderedand felt that it was different for Joan; that _she_ should have beenkept in--in bondage. It would have been bondage for her. But, David, the only thing I dared _not_ do was to keep freedom from the child. "

"And suppose"--Martin's face grew grimmer--"suppose she goes under?"

"She will come to me--she promised. I am prepared to go as far as I canwith my girls on their way; not mine. That was part of my bargain withGod when I took them. "

"You're a very strange and risky woman, Doris. "

"And you are going to be fair, David, dear. Now tell me about your boy. "

Instantly Martin was taken off guard. He smiled broadly and pattedDoris's hand, which lay upon his arm. 

"Bud's coming out on top!" he said--Clive Cameron was always Bud toMartin. "I've kept closemouthed about the boy, " he went on, forgettingJoan; "he's meant a lot to me, but I've always recognized thepossibility of failure with him and felt the least I could do, if thingscame to the worst, was to leave an exit for him to slip out of, unnoticed. He's always kept us guessing--my sister and I. He never knewhis father. From a silent, observing child he ran into a stormy, vividyouth that often threatened disaster if not positive annihilation--buthe's of the breed that dashes to the edge, grinds his teeth, plants hisfeet, and looks over!--then, breathing hard, draws back. After a while Igot to banking on that balking trick of his. Once I got used to the factthat the boy meant to know life--not abuse it--I knew a few easy yearswhile he plodded or, at times, plunged, through college. 

"He couldn't settle, though, on a job, and that upset us at last. He ranthe gamut of professions in his mind--but none of them appealed to him. When he was nineteen he suddenly took an interest in his father--we'dnever told him much about him. Cameron wasn't a bad chap--he simplyhadn't character enough to _be_ bad--he was a floater! When Bud got thatinto his system, it sobered him more than if he'd been told his fatherwas a scamp. A year later the boy came to me and said: 'Uncle David, ifyou don't think I'd queer your profession--I'm going to make a try atit. '"

Martin's face beamed and then he went on:

"That was a big day for me, Doris, but even when the chap went into it, I kept quiet. I feared he might balk. But he hasn't! He's bigstuff--that boy of mine. He confided everything to me this time. Certainphases of the work almost drove him off--dissecting and, well, thegrimmer aspects! Often, he told me, he had to put up a stiff fight withhimself before he could enter a dissecting room--but that does one oftwo things, Doris: makes a doctor human or a brute. It has humanizedBud. He'll be through now, in a year or so, and I'm going to throw himneck and crop into my practice. I'll stand by for awhile, but I havegreat faith in my boy!"

Doris looked up at the grave, happy face above her own. 

For a moment a sensation she had never experienced before touchedher--it was like jealousy!

"How he would have adored a son of his own, " she thought, "and what afather he would have been!"

She faltered before speaking, then she said quietly:

"If--if I have deprived you of much, David, at least I have not killedthe soul of you. "

"I'm learning as I go along, my dear, " Martin replied. 

"We're not all developed in the same way. "

"And, David, " Doris trembled as she spoke, "as you feel for your boy, soI feel for my Joan. You must trust me. "

"That is different, " Martin stiffened. 

"It is the same. "

CHAPTER XII

"_In all directions gulfs and yawning abysses. _"

That was what David Martin felt was encompassing Joan. He wanted to takea hand in her affairs, but before he left Ridge House Doris made himpromise that unless she changed her mind, he would not even call uponJoan. 

"If she knows that you have your eye on her, David, much of what I hopefor will be threatened. You have quite a dreadful eye, dear man, andJoan is sensitive. She may look you up--I will write to her about you. If she doesn't, she does not want you to--well, Davey, meddle! And shehas a perfect right to her freedom. She is self-supporting now!"

Doris could but show her pride in Joan's cleverness. 

"Very well, Doris. I wash my hands of the matter, but I think it sheermadness!"

With that Martin returned to town and waited, hopefully, for a summonsfrom Joan. It did not come!

He did go so far, one evening, as to walk on the block where the studiowas, but he got no satisfaction from that except the proof of itsrespectability. 

"I cannot look back just now!" Joan had thought when considering Martin, "and Uncle David would tell me things about Aunt Dorrie and Nancy thatwould rumple all my calm, and I dare not risk it. "

In this she was wise--for there were times when, the novelty and freedomof self-support worn off, the temptation to return to the waitingflesh-pots was very great. At such moments of weakness Patricia ralliedher. 

"Don't be one of the women who are ready to sell their birthrights fora meal ticket, " Patricia urged, looking her daintiest and saintliest. 

"But what _is_ one's birthright?" Joan asked. 

"The self-expression of--yourself, " Patricia smiled serenely. 

This always reinstated Joan in her old resolve. 

"To come to town and cut capers at the Brier Bush, " she confided toSylvia, once Patricia was off the scene, "is poor proof of anything. Syl, I'm going to get to work seriously soon with my music. "

"We'll get a piano, " practical Sylvia suggested; "there is no need togrow rusty while you're making money. "

And so they secured the piano, and the studio had another charm. 

The Brier Bush, in the meantime, was waxing great in popularity andfinancial success. Elspeth Gordon from her position of assurance gave ita unique touch. No one could take liberties with her tea room. Presentlydelicious luncheons were added to the scheme, and, while Joan's part wasregarded with amused complacency, the excellent food and servicecommanded respect. 

At first women came largely to the pretty, attractive rooms; then, occasionally, men, rather timidly, presented themselves, but findingthemselves taken for granted and the food above reproach, they appearedin numbers and enjoyed it. 

And then one rather gloomy, early spring day Mrs. Tweksbury came uponthe scene. 

Joan knew her at once, although the old face was more wrinkled anddelicate. 

Of course Mrs. Tweksbury had not the slightest inkling concerning Joan'smovements, and she looked upon the veiled young creature moving aboutthe tea room with a cool, calm stare of amused disapproval. 

"Quite a faddish thing you're making of your venture, " she said toElspeth Gordon, for of course with a bishop for a grandfather MissGordon was taken for granted. Elspeth smiled her most dignified smileand replied graciously:

"Just a bit of amusement, Mrs. Tweksbury. It helps digestion and, incidentally, helps business. "

"But the--the young woman, Miss Gordon--is she a professional?"

"Have you tested her, Mrs. Tweksbury?"

"Oh! no, my dear Miss Gordon. " Mrs. Tweksbury had beautiful old handsand she turned the palms up while she considered them. 

"Suppose you judge for yourself, Mrs. Tweksbury. " Elspeth was charminglyeasy in her manner. 

"Who is she?" bluntly asked the old lady. 

"Ah!" And here Elspeth recoiled. "My palmist and my best recipes aresacred to me, Mrs. Tweksbury. But may I call my little seer to you?"

Mrs. Tweksbury consented, and when Joan looked at the pink, soft palm aspirit of mischief possessed her. 

Skirting as near as she dared to the facts in her possession, shegently, but startlingly, took the owner of the hand at a disadvantage. 

At first Mrs. Tweksbury was confirmed in her idea that the girl beforeher was a society girl--her general knowledge could be explained bythat, but suddenly Joan became more daring--she vividly recalled muchthat she had heard Doris say in defence of the old woman whom Nancy andshe feared and often ridiculed. 

It took but a twist to change a private incident into a blurred butamazing suggestion. 

Mrs. Tweksbury was frankly and angrily impressed. 

When passing from the room Miss Gordon spoke to her:

"Do you believe in my Veiled Lady?" she asked. 

"Certainly not, Miss Gordon, but I'm--afraid of her! You had betterguard her somewhat--or she'll be taken seriously. "

"We'll never see _her_ again!" prophesied Joan, chuckling over hervictory with the old lady; "I've evened up for Nan and me!" she thought, and then the incident passed from her mind. 

But not so easily did the matter go from the confused thoughts of Mrs. Tweksbury. 

"I dare say, " she finally concluded, "that if one could tear the veilfrom the face of that impudent little minx one would discover thesmartest of the objectionable Smart Set. The girl should be curbed--howdare she!"--here Emily Tweksbury flushed a rich mahogany red as sherecalled some of the cleverly concealed details of, what seemed to her, the most private affairs. 

"Outrageous!" she snorted, and vowed that she deserved all that she hadreceived for supporting the new-fangled nonsense that was spreading likea new social evil in the heart of all she held sacred. 

Patricia Leigh had not been so interested in years as she was in Joan'saffairs at the Brier Bush. They smacked of high adventure and thrilledthe girl. 

To Sylvia they were rather grovelling means to a legitimate end. Shescowled at Joan's vivid description of her experiences and warned her totrust not too fully to her veil. 

"But it's a splendid lark!" Patricia burst in, defensively; "it's Artspelled in capitals. Joan, take my advice and get points about theswells and scare them stiff!"

"Pat, you should be ashamed!" Sylvia scowled darkly. 

"Yes?" purred Patricia. Then: "I see the finish of Plain John's romance, my sinister Syl, if you don't limber up your spine. Genius, love, andunbending virtue never pull together. "

And then--it was when March was dreariest and drippiest--Kenneth Raymondstrode--that was the only word to describe his long-legged advance--intothe Brier Bush for luncheon with Mrs. Tweksbury. 

He had listened to variations of Mrs. Tweksbury's first visit to the tearoom with varying degrees of impatience. 

He hated tea rooms; he had little interest in young women, andparticularly disapproved of the type bordering on license; but he hadconsented to go in order to lay the old lady's growing nervousnessconcerning the details of her first visit. 

"My dear, " Mrs. Tweksbury had said to Raymond, "the more I think of itthe more I am puzzled. "

"Exactly, " Raymond replied; "the more you think of it the more puzzlesyou introduce. Undoubtedly the young woman is a girl playing outside herlegitimate preserves. She's taking an unfair advantage. They always do. Presuming on sex and social position. Unless the girl is an outlaw, she'll confine her antics to the safe outer edge. "

In this mood Raymond strode into the Brier Bush with Mrs. Tweksbury athis heels. They took a table near the fireplace and, rather arrogantly, Raymond looked about. 

"No one was going to take him in!" was what his stern young eyes anddominant chin proclaimed. 

He was of that type of man that gives the impression of being handsomewithout any of the damaging features so often included. He was handsomebecause he was strong, well set up, and completely unconscious ofhimself. 

He was always willing to pay the right price for what he wanted, but hemeant to get good value! He was lavish with what was his own, as Mrs. Tweksbury almost tearfully asserted, but about that he never spoke andalways frowned down any reference to it. 

He expected the usual thing at the Brier Bush, and was just enough toshow some appreciation when he did not find it. 

The rooms were unique and charming. Elspeth Gordon was impressive as shewalked about among her guests. She might permit them to be amused; help, indeed, to give them a cheery hour in the busy day, but not for a momentwould she admit what could be questionable in her scheme. 

That being proved, Raymond critically attacked the bill of fare. Itspromise was like the atmosphere of the place, honest and wholesome. 

No man is proof against such dishes as were presently set before him. Raymond was so engrossed by their merit and so surprised by it that heforgot the main thing that had brought him to the Brier Bush until hefelt Mrs. Tweksbury's foot firmly and insistently pressing his. Helooked up. 

Joan was passing their table and very slightly she inclined her headtoward it. 

Her eyes were what startled Raymond. If eyes in themselves have noexpression, then the soul, looking through, has full play. 

All Joan's youth and ignorance and unconscious wisdom shone forth. Mrs. Tweksbury amused her, but the man at the table disturbed her. Shemisinterpreted the calm glance he fixed upon her. It was a disapprovingglance, to be sure, and Joan shrank from that, but she felt that he wascruelly misjudging her and was so sure of himself that he dared to doit--without even knowing!

This she resented with a flash of her wonderful eyes. 

What Raymond really meant was--doubt. Not of her, but himself. 

"Saucy witch!" whispered Mrs. Tweksbury; "Ken, test her, for my sake!"Again the foot under the table steered Raymond's thoughts. 

He found himself smiling up at Joan and, rising, offered her the thirdchair at his table. 

She sat down quite indifferently, but graciously, and spread out herpretty hands. Joan's hands were lovely--Raymond was susceptible tohands. To him they indicated fineness or the reverse. Art could do muchfor hands, but Nature could do more. 

Quite as graciously and simply as Joan had done Raymond spread his ownhands forth with the remark: "At your mercy, Sibyl. "

Now Joan, through much study of books and with a certain intuition thatstood her in good stead, had cleverly conquered her tricks. For whatthey were worth, she offered them charmingly, seriously, and withimpressiveness. 

Then, too, from much guessing, with astonishing results, she had grownto half believe in what she was doing. Patricia aided her in this. Patricia had a superstitious streak and took to fads as she took to herverse--on her flying trips. 

"You are a business man, " Joan began, fixing her splendid eyes on thefrankly upturned hands--she was comparing them with the hands of theThird Sex, those studio-haunting men whose hands, like their linen andmorals, were too often off-colour. 

"An honest business man!" Joan thought that, but did not voice it. 

"You will succeed--if----" This she spoke aloud and then looked up. Shewas ready now to punish her prey for that look of doubt in his eyes. 

"If--what?" Raymond was conscious of the "feel" of the hand which heldhis--Joan's other hand was lying open beside his on the table. 

"If----" and now Joan traced delicately a line in his palm--a faint, wavering line running hither and thither among the more strongly markedones; "if you strengthen this line, " she said. "You are too sure of--ofyour inherited traits. This line indicates individuality; it will rulein the end, but you are making personality your god now. That is unwise. As a well-trained servant it is wonderful, but as a master it will runyou off your best course. "

How Patricia would have gloried could she have heard her words mouthedby Joan!

Raymond stared. He felt Mrs. Tweksbury's foot on his and, mentally, clung to it as a familiar and safe landmark. 

"Just what difference lies between individuality and personality?" heasked so seriously that Joan's mouth twitched under her life-savingveil. She brought Patricia's philosophy into more active action. 

"The difference is the meaning of life. One comes into thisconsciousness with his individuality--or soul, or whatever one cares tocall it--intact. It accepts or repudiates what the personality--that isintellect--learns through the five senses. If it is _truth_, then itbecomes part of the individuality--if it is untruth, it is discarded. Individuality is never in doubt--it _knows_. It is not bound by foolishlaws evolved from the five-sensed personality; it will, in the end, haveits way. You will have to listen more to your individuality; becontrolled less by your personality. The latter is too fullydeveloped"--at this broad slash Raymond coloured in spite ofhimself--"the former has been pitifully ignored. "

The pause that followed was made normal only by the pressure onRaymond's foot. 

Presently he said, boldly:

"You have the same line in your own hand, Sibyl!"

Joan started and looked down. She had not considered a home thrustpossible. Instinctively her long, slim fingers clutched the secret ofher palm. 

"I am not reading my own lines, " she said, quietly; "I am learning fromthem, however!"

Then she rose with dignity and passed to another table where a broad, flat, commonplace hand lay ready. 

"Well?" Mrs. Tweksbury pounced into the arena like a released gladiator. "What do you make of it, Ken?"

Raymond laughed. He saw that Mrs. Tweksbury was more impressed than shecared to acknowledge. 

"I don't know what she told you, Aunt Emily, " he said, taking up thecheck beside his plate, "but it was rather cleverly concealed rot, asfar as I am concerned. Drivel; faddy drivel, but the girl's a lady, orwhatever that word stands for. I half believe the child takes herselfseriously--she has wonderful eyes. She should wear blinders--it isn'tfair to leave them outside the veil. Comical little beggar!"

"But, Ken, " Emily Tweksbury followed her companion from the room, "youare like that--you really are! You just take life by the throat and youare sure of yourself in a way that frightens me. "

"Oh, come, Aunt Emily, that girl has caught you by her nonsense. Seehere, let us do a bit of sleuthing! I bet the sibyl often is at dinnerswhere we go--and I'm not so sure but what I would know those hands ofhers anywhere--they were not ordinary hands. Two can play at her littlegame. "

This seemed to offer some inducement to Mrs. Tweksbury and shebrightened. 

"Her walk, too, Ken. Did you notice that?"

"Yes--I did, by Jove! Longer strides than most girls take and a swingfrom the hips like a graceful dance motion. Yes, that walk should be adead give-away. "

"And her eyes, Ken, she _has_ eyes!"

"Yes, " rather musingly, "she has eyes!"

"Ken, we mustn't give further countenance to this silly, faddy place. "

This with conviction. 

"Why should we, Aunt Emily? I only went at your request, you know. "

"Of course. The girl got on my nerves. " Mrs. Tweksbury could smile now. 

"Well, I'm going to get on hers!" Raymond set his jaw. 

Two days later Kenneth Raymond went to the Brier Bush again forluncheon. This time Mrs. Tweksbury did not accompany him. 

He took a table at the far end of the room near the windows--he wantedlight. He ordered his luncheon, read his paper, and to all intents andpurposes gave the impression of a business man who, having discovered aplace of good food, repaired to it with confidence. Of course ElspethGordon did not remember him--why should she? But Joan did--and whyshould she? She was reading the palms of a hilarious group near thetable at which Raymond sat reading the stock reports; she was in a galeof high spirits but, when she was aware of Raymond's glance, she pausedand caught her breath. 

"Anything bad in my hand?" asked the girl whose palm Joan was scanning. 

"Oh, no! Something splendid. You are never to make mistakes, becauseyour caution is stronger than your desire, " Joan murmured. 

"I think _that_ is stupid, " the girl returned; "no fun in that kind ofthing. "

Joan prolonged each reading at the safe, jolly table; she planned, whenshe was done, to ignore the man near her and go in the oppositedirection, but while she planned she was aware that she would do no suchthing. The bird and the snake know this force, so do the moon and thetides. 

And at last Joan got up and turned toward Raymond. As she passed histable--he was busy with his soup then--her head was high and her eyesfixed upon Miss Gordon at the other end of the room. She was estimatingher chances of reaching Elspeth with the limited self-control at hercommand. Then she heard words and paused without turning her head. 

"I wish you would stop a moment. I have a question to ask you. "

Joan had a sudden fear that if she did not stop the question would beshouted. 

"Very well, " she said, quietly, and sat down opposite Raymond. 

She clasped her pretty hands before her and--waited. 

It is not easy to laugh away the moments in life that we cannot accountfor--they often seem the only moments of tremendous import; they are thechannels which, once entered, give access to wide experiences. Joan felther breath coming hard; she was frightened. Raymond pushed his plateaside and, leaning forward a bit over his clasped hands, said casually:

"Just how much of this rot do you believe?"

"None of it. "

"Why do you do it?"

"I am earning my bread and butter and--dessert. "

"Especially--the dessert?"

"No. Especially bread and butter. It is only a bit of fun, youknow--this reading of the palms. Miss Gordon thinks it--it aidsdigestion, " Joan was speaking hardly above a whisper. 

"She does, eh?" Raymond had an insane desire to snatch the shieldingveil from the face across the table. He wondered what would happen if hedid?

"I wish, " he said instead, "I wish you'd cut it out, you know. "

"What--my bread and butter?"

"No--this tomfoolery. I don't believe you have to earn your living. I'dlay a wager that you are doing it as a stunt to vary the monotony of adull existence, but there are other and better ways of doing that, youknow. "

Raymond was deadly earnest and did not stop to consider the absurdity ofhis words and tones. 

"What ways?" asked Joan, and Raymond detected the suggestion of a smilebehind the vapoury veil. 

"I don't think I need to tell you that, " he said. 

"Perhaps not--but after consideration I've chosen this way. I like it. "Joan was getting control of herself, and in proportion to her gainRaymond lost. 

"I suppose you think me an impudent ass, " he ventured. 

"I'm--thinking of something else, " Joan answered. 

"What, for instance?"

"That line--in your hand. "

"I thought you said this was only fun; that you did not believe in it?"Raymond frowned as he saw his next course advancing toward him. 

"There are exceptions, " and Joan helped him arrange his dishes. 

"Some day, if you are interested, come and I'll tell you more about thatline in your hand. " She rose with quiet grace and moved away. 

"Oh! I say--" Raymond followed her with his eyes--"why not to-day?"

"There are others, " Joan tossed back and was gone. 

That night she went to Patricia Leigh's. Patricia had had a busy andprosperous day. She had written some verses that she felt weregood--they had a tang that always gave Patricia the belief in theirquality; she had sold two other small things. She was, therefore, at herflightiest, and greeted Joan with delight. 

"I'm so glad Syl is not tagging on, Joan, " she said. "Syl is the bestthey make, but she does somehow get under the skin and make people feelthemselves 'seconds'. "

Joan sank into a chair. 

"Syl is writing reams to her John, " she explained. "I doubt if shenoticed my leaving. She probably thinks I'm still singing. "

And then Joan told Patricia about the man who, for some unknown reason, had made himself permanent in her interest. 

"I wish I knew about him, " she murmured; "I cannot recall any one in theleast like him in Mrs. Tweksbury's life. I don't want to ask AuntDoris--besides, he may just be a chance acquaintance of Mrs. Tweksbury's. I hardly think that, though--for she looks volumes at himand he sort of appropriates her. "

Patricia was frankly interested--she was flying, and at such moments herbird's-eye view was a wide and sympathetic one. 

Joan, too, in this mood was bewitching. 

"All Joan needs, " thought Patricia, "is to discover her sex appeal; getit on a leash and take it out walking. She's like a marionettenow--hopping about, doing stunts, but not conscious of her performance. "

"Lamb!" Patricia lighted a fresh cigarette, "a week from to-night youbreeze in here and what I do not know about your young man, by thattime, will not count for or against him. "

"But, Pat, do be careful!" Joan was frightened by what she had set inmotion. 

"Careful, lamb? Why, if carefulness wasn't my keynote, I'd be--well! Iwouldn't be here. "

CHAPTER XIII

"_Joyous we launch out on trackless seas carolling free, singing oursongs. _"

A week from that night Joan again eluded Sylvia. She did it by not goingto the studio for dinner. She felt deceitful and mean, but there wereheights--or were they depths?--that Sylvia could not reach, andintuitively Joan felt that Sylvia would disapprove of what she was nowdoing. 

Patricia was not in when Joan reached her rooms--they were small, dimrooms and rather cluttered. 

Sitting alone, waiting, Joan thought of Patricia more intimately thanshe often did. She recalled what Sylvia had told of her; remembered thewarnings, and her eyes dimmed. 

"Poor old Pat!" she mused, "she's like a pretty bird--just lighting onthings, or"--and here Joan thought she had struck on something ratherexpressive--"or like a lovely, bright cloud casting a shadow. No matterwhat colour the cloud is, the shadow's dark. Dear old Pat! Well--I seethe colour. "

This was satisfying and brought up her feeling about Patricia, which hadbeen depressed. 

And just then Patricia tripped in, humming and rippling and stumblingover a rug as she felt her way in the gloom--Joan had not turned on thelights. Presently she stopped short and asked sharply:

"Who is here?"

Joan bubbled over and Patricia gave a relieved laugh. 

"Lordy!" she gasped, "you gave me a bad minute. I thought----"

"What, Pat?" Joan touched the switch. 

"I--I thought--it might be someone else. I haven't had a thing to eatsince breakfast, " Patricia announced, dropping on a couch and pullingthe cushions into all the crevices surrounding her thin, weary littlebody. 

"I'll get the nicest little meal for you in a jiffy!" Joan sprang to herfeet. "Is there anything _to_ fix?" she added, quickly. 

"There's always something"--Patricia closed her eyes--"eggs and milkand--and canned horrors. " Then, with a radiant smile:

"I've been on the trail of your man, Joan, and it was some trail. "

"Pat, darling, " Joan hung over the couch, "you take a couple of winks. I'm going out to get--a steak. "

"A what?" Patricia regarded Joan gravely. "A brand-new steak for me?Joan, you must be mad!"

"Pat, lie down and dream a minute or two. A steak, fried potatoes, avegetable, and dessert with coffee, cheese, crackers--and--and----" Joanwas putting on her hat while she spoke and Patricia was sniffingadorably. 

A half hour later Joan crept noiselessly back, her arms full of bundles. Patricia lay fast asleep on the couch. 

Sleep does revealing things, and in spite of her hurry, Joan stopped andlooked at the girl lying in the full glare of the electric light. 

She was like a weary child. All the hard lines on the thin face wereobliterated; the soft hair fell in cunning curls about the neck andears; the long lashes rested delicately on the fair skin. 

All the world stains were covered by the sweet presence of Patricia'syouth, which had stolen forth in slumber time. 

Then it was that Joan discovered that she was crying. Big tears wererolling down her cheeks, and in her heart was growing a new, vitalemotion--a selfless, nameless, urging tide of protection for somethingweak and helpless. 

When the meal was prepared Joan kissed Patricia awake. 

The girl sat up and gazed dazedly at the small table drawn to the couch, at the candles burning on it, at the covered dishes from which crept themost bewildering smells. 

"The god of the famishing--bless you!" whispered Patricia and fell tothe joy of the meal with the abandon of the starved. 

She ate and drank and smoked. She let Joan wait upon her and dispose ofthe d�bris. She even directed Joan to the closet where her kimono andslippers were; she let Joan undress her and put them on. 

"How thin you are, Pat lovey!" Here Joan kissed a white shoulder. 

"A mere bag of bones, Joan lamb, but they are easy to carry around. "

"And such ducks of feet, Pat, I never saw such cunning feet. They do notlook big enough to be of use. "

"They'll carry me as far as I have to go, Joan, and take it from me, I'mnot keen for a prolonged trip. It's too much trouble to keep yourselfalive to want to spin it out. "

"Oh, Pat! Hasn't my dinner done you any good?" Joan smoothed the soft, fluffy curls tenderly. 

"Why, you old darling, " Patricia broke forth, "you've given me a glimpseof what would make it worth while--the trip, I mean. That's the trouble. I get the glimpse, acquire the taste, and then I wake up to--sawdust. Oh! good God, Joan. "

Joan rose and turned off the lights; she left the candles burning andsat down on a stool by Patricia. 

After a while Patricia reached for her cigarettes and spoke as ifseveral big things had not occurred. She gurgled as a mischievous childmight who had stolen jam and escaped detection. 

"Your man, Joan, " she began puffing away, "is named Kenneth Raymond. Intracking him I resorted first to Hannah Leland, society editor of_Froth_. Hannah stores up items about the upper crust as a squirrel doesnuts. Her articles always have background; she's let in everywherebecause folks are afraid to shut her out. She can see more throughkeyholes than others do through barn doors, and her scentis--phenomenal!"

Joan hugged her knees and looked grave. 

"I--I hate to snoop, Pat, " she whispered. 

"You don't have to--I got Hannah's snoops for you. They're innocentenough--really, they're the soundest of sound little nuts. 

"Mrs. Tweksbury had a romance! Don't grin, Joan. She didn't always looklike a squaw in front of a tobacco shop--they say she was rather astunner. She married Tweksbury before she got the bit in hermouth--afterward she clutched it good and proper and trotted the courseaccording to the rules. 

"Then came Raymond--this man's father. He somehow got it over to Mrs. Tweksbury--the real thing, you know, and she reached and got it over to_him_, that it was up to them to--keep it clean. Gee! Joan, her pastsounds like a tract with all the sobs left out and a lot of iron put in. 

"Raymond, in a year or two, married a woman who lived only long enoughto produce this man upon whose trail we're scouting. This Kenneth was ameasly little offspring and his mother's people undertook to give him achance to live. He picked up and he and his father became pals--Hannahrooted out a picture of them riding horseback. Then the father wasthrown from his horse and killed right before the eyes of the boy, andthat put him back years--he barely escaped. I don't believe he wouldhave, from accounts, if Mrs. Tweksbury hadn't butted in at that pointand made it a matter of honour to the boy to--to--carry on!

"Well, once he mounted _that_ horse he rode it as he did allothers--hard and grim. He never played in all his life. He's been makinggood. Society he loathes; women do not exist for him, outside of Mrs. Tweksbury. I bet he knows _her_ past and is paying back for hisdad--he's like that. 

"Well, when I'd got everything Hannah had in her safe I had a burningdesire to have a look at Mr. Kenneth Raymond myself. So this afternoon Iwent to his office----"

"Pat!" cried Joan. "Oh! Pat, how could you?"

"Easiest thing in the world, my lamb. You see, the chance of viewing ahuman being--with one fortune in his pocket and another coming to himwhen Mrs. Tweksbury lets go--actually on a job holding it down likegrim death--was a sight to gladden the heart of a tramp like me. Isallied down to Wall Street and had some fun. 

"I found his building without a moment's delay and I casually asked theelevator boy where Mr. Raymond's office was, and the little chap greweffusive--either Mr. Raymond is lavish with tips, or the human touch, for his goings and comings are meat to that kid. 

"He told me I had better hustle, for at four-thirty every day Mr. Raymond beat it! The boy was an artist in word-painting. He described myman as a real toff, none of your little yappers. He's going to haul inthe pile and playing honest-to-God--fair, too!"

Joan burst out laughing. Patricia mimicked the ribald manner of the boydeliciously. 

Patricia nodded her thanks and went on:

"Well, I hung around his corridor for ten minutes, Joan; and atfour-thirty exactly his door opened and I had timed myself so perfectlythat he tumbled over me and nearly knocked me down. 

"He has better manners than you might expect from such a deadly promptperson. He steadied me and looked positively concerned when he realizedwhat a pretty, helpless little thing I am!" Patricia gave a wicked winkand lighted her fifth cigarette. 

"I told him I was looking for ---- and I made up a preposterous name; andhe puckered his lofty brow and said he couldn't recall any such name inthe building, and then I told him I had about concluded that I had thewrong address, and he offered to look the name up for me, but I sighedand said that it was too late. My man always left his office atthree-forty-five and that I would have to come again. 

"We went down in the elevator together, the boy winking all the way downat me--and--that's all, Joan, except that you've got to go careful withMr. Kenneth Raymond. You don't want to hurt that fairy godmother of his;she hasn't had many things of her own in life, and I do insist thatwhile one is grabbing it's better to grab where there is a flock thanpick a ewe-lamb. Besides, this Kenneth Raymond hasn't begun tounderstand himself--he's been too busy understanding life. Have a heart, Joan!"

Joan looked up sedately. 

"Isn't it queer, Pat, but now that I know him he doesn't seeminteresting in the least. He's priggish and conceited; he's a poser, too. It is too bad, Pat, for you to tire yourself out and get such a--adry stick for your pains. "

Patricia regarded Joan for a full minute and then she remarked:

"You had better go home and get to bed, child. And look here--I give youthis advice free: a fire lighted by an idiot can do as much damage asany other kind of a fire. "

"Thanks, Pat. I'll remember that when I--play around dry sticks. Good-night, you old, funny Pat, and thank you. "

Joan bent and kissed the top of Patricia's head. 

After that evening with Patricia Joan clung to Sylvia with unusualtenacity. She also went to see a well-known teacher of music and got hisopinion of her voice. 

"Your voice needs nearly everything to be done for it that can be doneto a voice, " the professor frankly told her, "but you _have_ a voice, beyond doubt. You have feeling, too, almost too much of it; it isfeeling uncontrolled, perhaps not understood. 

"If you are willing to give years to it you will be a singer. "

The man thought that he was killing hope in the girl before him, but tohis surprise she raised her eyes seriously to him and said:

"I am a working girl, but I am saving for the chance of doing what yousuggest. I will begin next winter. I think I know that I shall never begreat, but I believe I will sing some day. "

The man bowed her out with deep respect. 

When Joan told of her interview Sylvia was delighted, and Patricia, whohad happened in for a cup of tea, looked relieved. 

"Of course you'll sing, Joan, " she said, enthusiastically, "and if youdon't turn your talent to account you'll bring the wrath of God downupon you. That Brier Bush is well enough to start you--but you're prettywell through with it, I fancy. "

Patricia was arraigning herself with Sylvia for reasons best known toherself. She had the air of a very discreet young woman. 

Long did Joan lie awake that night on her narrow bed. She had raised theshade, and the stars were splendid in the blue-black sky. 

She was happier, sadder, than she had ever been in her life before--moreconfused. 

She wanted Doris and Nancy and the shelter and care; she wanted her ownbroad path and the thrill that her own sense of power gave her. Shewanted to cling close to Sylvia; she was afraid of Patricia but felt thegirl's influence in her deepest depths. 

In short, Joan was waking to the meaning of life, and it had taken verylittle to awaken her, for her time had come. 

Three days later Kenneth Raymond ate his luncheon at the Brier Bush andspoke no word to Joan. The following day he nodded to her, and the dayafter that he said, in a low voice as she passed:

"I want to have you read my palm again. "

"Once is enough, " Joan replied. 

"I have forgotten what you said, " Raymond broke in; "besides, I haveanother reason. You've set me on a line of thought--you've got to clearthe track. "

"Oh, very well. " And Joan sat down and took the broad hand in hers. 

"I've read a lot of stuff since I saw you first, " Raymond began. "Thereis something in this palmistry. "

"I just take the words and play with them, " Joan replied. "I truly donot know whether there is anything in it--or not. It is only fun here. "

"Look at me!"

This Joan refused to do. 

"There is that line in my hand like yours"--Raymond was in deadearnest--"what--does it mean?"

"I told you what it means, " Joan faltered. 

"Do you want me to read your palm?" Raymond bent farther across thetable. 

"Yes, if you can!" Joan was on her mettle. She instantly spread herhands to the bent gaze and prayed that no one would take the tables nearby. It was late; the rush was over and Elspeth Gordon, for the moment, had left the room. 

"You're not what you appear, " Raymond began. 

"Who _is_?" Joan flung this out defiantly. 

"You're daring a good deal--to taste life. You're testing your line;making it prove itself--_I_ haven't dared!"

Joan did not speak, and her small hands were as quiet as little deadhands in the strong ones which held them. 

"Does it pay--the daring, the testing?" Raymond's eyes, dark andunfaltering, tried to pierce the veil. 

"Yes--I think so. "

"You make me want to try--do you dare me?"

"It does not interest me at all what you do. " Joan was like ice now. "You evidently misunderstand our play here. Let go of my hands!"

"I haven't finished yet. You've got to hear me out. "

"Let go of my hands!"

"All right--but will you stay here?"

"I'll stay until I want to go. "

"Very well. I know I'm a good deal of a fool--but sometimes a slightthing turns the stream. I thought it was all rot--a play that you'd madeup--this line business. " Raymond spoke hurriedly. "Of course I'd heardof it, but I never gave it a thought. Just for sport, after that firstday, I got bushels of books and I've been sitting up nights reading. There's something in it!"

Joan laughed. The man looked like an excited boy who had started a toyengine going. 

"See here! They say your left hand is what you start with; your righthand what you have made of yourself--that line that you have and I haveis in my right hand--is yours in both?"

Joan tried not to look--but ended in looking. 

"No, " she replied. "I reckon it only comes in the right hand withanybody. "

"No, it doesn't; the lady I was with the other day hadn't it in eitherhand!"

"Isn't she lucky?" Joan laughed. 

"No, she isn't!" Raymond spoke solemnly. "Only the people who haveit--are. "

"I'm going now. " Joan got up; and so did Raymond. 

"See here, " he said, bluntly. "I've never had a bit of adventure in mylife--I'm a stick. I don't know what you will think of me; I don't caremuch; but you've started something in me; it's nothing I'm ashamed of, either, and you needn't be afraid. But won't you talk to me sometime--about--well, this stunt and some other things?"

"Certainly not!" Joan drew back and added: "and I am not in the leastafraid. "

CHAPTER XIV

"_But after it comes our lives are changed. _"

And just when winter was turning to spring in the southern hillssomething happened to Nancy. 

The winter at Ridge House had revealed many things. It had been lonely, and it had brought conviction about Joan's absence. The girl was notcoming back to them, that must be an accepted fact. She would, undoubtedly, when she became adjusted, return on visits--but they mustnot expect her as a fixture, for she was succeeding! This realizationhad caused Doris many silent hours of thought, but never once had sheknown bitterness or a sense of injustice. Joan had as much right as anyother human soul to her own development. Doris was glad that Joan hadnever known what Nancy knew about the need for coming to The Gap. Theknowing would have held Joan back. With Nancy it was different. Nancywas not held from anything she wanted. 

David Martin spent as much time as he could at Ridge House. He came tothe hard conclusion, at length, that Doris, in her new environment, hadreached her high-water mark. Detached from strain and care, livingquietly, and largely in the open, she had responded almost at once--toher limit, and there she remained. How long this improved state wouldhold was the main thing to be considered; nothing more comforting couldbe looked for. 

"Then, what next?" thought David, and his jaw grew grim. 

And Nancy, with a winter far too quiet and uneventful even for her, hadcontrived to do some thinking for herself. Not for the world would thegirl have accepted Joan's choice. The safe and sheltered life was whollyto her taste, but she wanted others to fall into line. Like manyanother, she was not content to hold her own views, she was unhappyunless she was approved and imitated. She wanted the spice and thrill ofJoan in her life; Joan was part of it all--the rightful part. With thisNancy took to self-pity in order to establish her claim. 

"Why should I be taken for granted and be obliged to give up all the funand brightness while Joan does as she pleases?"

Doctor Martin, even Doris, expected Nancy to come when she was calledand go to bed when the clock struck ten, while Joan could follow her ownsweet will. 

At this point Nancy re-read Joan's letters--all letters from Joan werecommon property. If ever there was innocent jugglery Joan's letterswere. They were vivid and interesting; they carried one along on astream as clear as crystal, but they arrived at nothing. 

The studio was left to the imagination of the reader. Doris saw it as asafe and artistic home for earnest young girlhood; Nancy saw it as anopen sesame to fun, rather wilder than school bats, but with the samedelicious tang. Doctor Martin viewed the place as most dangerous, andthose young people gathered there as perilous offsprings of amuch-deplored departure from conservative youth. 

"Fancy Joan helping in a restaurant!" groaned Nancy when Joan hadparticularized about her "job. " "Joan, of all people!"

"It will be good practice, " Doris remarked in reply. "When Joan marries, she will have had some experience. "

"Marry?" David Martin broke in--he was on one of his flying visits. "Ifanything could unfit a girl for marriage, the thing Joan is doing isthat. "

"Very well, " Doris said, quietly; "marriage isn't everything, David. "

Doris was beginning to defend Joan, and it hurt her to be obliged to doso. She did not regret the relinquishing of the girl, but she had hoped, in her deepest love, that the experiment might either prove a failure orthat it might carry Joan to a peak--not a dead level. It was beginningto seem that the sacrifice on her part meant simply separating Joanfrom her--not giving Joan to anything worth while. 

There were moments, rather vague, elusive ones, to be sure, when Doristurned from Joan and contemplated Nancy. 

"The child is perfectly content and happy, " she thought; "but ought sheto be so--at her age? Nancy should marry--she will, of course, someday. ----" Then Doris wondered whom Nancy could marry. 

"Next winter I may be able to go to New York, " she comforted herself;"or I'll send Nancy to Emily Tweksbury; the child shall have her lifechance. "

But with Doris the inevitable was happening: she was sliding gracefullydown the inclined plane which others had arranged for her. She wasmaking no effort, because none was required of her. The peace andcomfort of the old house in restoring comparative health had placed itsmark upon her. It was wonderful to lie on the porch and watch the beautyof The Gap change from season to season. The sound of the river wasalways in her ears, and there was a dramatic appeal in kneeling at thealtar in the tiny chapel to pray for them whom she loved so tenderly. 

And Nancy was so sweet and companionable! Poor little Nancy! She wasplaying Doris's minor accompaniment as once she had played Joan's morevivid one. But the youth in her was surging and rebelling--not againstlove and service, but inequality. 

"Joan should bear half, anyway!"

Just what it was that Joan should share Nancy could not have told, shesimply knew that she wanted Joan--wanted what Joan represented. 

With the passing of winter and the early coming of spring Nancy andDoris reacted to the charm of The Gap. The shut-in days were past. Almost before one could hope for it, the dogwood and laurel and azaleaburst into bloom and the windows and doors were flung back in welcome tospring. 

The grounds around Ridge House needed much attention, and Doriscontrived to make Uncle Jed believe that he was the gardener. Nancy, surrounded by dogs, no longer pups, wandered on the Little Road andtimidly took to the trails. It was quite exciting to go a little farthereach day into the mysterious gloom that was pierced by the goldensunlight. Gradually the girl felt the joy of the mountaineer; vaguelythe emotion took shape. 

What lay just around the curve ahead? What could one see from thatmysterious top? Was there a "top"? If one went on, overcoming obstacles, what might there not be? These ambitions were quite outside the by-pathsonce or twice taken with Father Noble. 

Doris was glad to see the light and colour in Nancy's pretty face; shewas grateful, but inclined to be anxious when Nancy wandered far. 

"Is it quite safe?" she questioned Jed. 

"Dat chile is as safe as she is with Gawd, " Jed reverently replied--andperhaps she was, for God's ways are often like the trails of the highplaces--hidden until one treads them. 

Nancy, by May, had lost all fear of the solitude, and with seeking eyesshe wandered farther and higher day by day. She brought back wonderfulflowers and ferns to Ridge House; she grew eloquent about the "lostcabins" as she called them, secreted from any gaze but that which, likehers, sought them out. She took gifts to the old people and timidchildren. 

"It's such fun, Aunt Dorrie, " she explained, "to win the baby things. Atfirst they are so frightened. They run and hide--they never cry orscream, and bye and bye they come to meet me; they bring me littletreasures, the darlings! One gave me a tiny chicken just hatched. "

But beyond the last cabin that Nancy conquered was a hard, rocky trailthat led, apparently, to the sharp crest called by Uncle Jed ThunderPeak. 

"Does any one live on Thunder Peak?" asked Nancy of Jed. 

The old man wrinkled his brow. He had not thought of Becky Adams foryears; at best the woman had been but a landmark, and landmarks had ahabit of disappearing. 

"No, there ain't no reason for folks to live on Thunder Peak. It's aright sorry place for living. "

Jed found comfort, now he came to think of it, in knowing that Becky haddeparted. 

"Whar?" he asked himself, when Nancy, followed by two of her dogs, wentaway; "whar dat old Aunt Becky disappeared to?" Then he pulled himselftogether and went to deliver the message Nancy had confided to him. 

"Tell Aunt Doris I'm going for a long walk and not to worry if I'm nothome for luncheon. "

Jed repeated this message over and over aloud. He fumbled it, correctedit, and then finally gripped it long enough to speak the wordsautomatically to Doris and Doctor Martin. 

"That old fellow, " Martin said, looking keenly after him, "is going togo all to pieces some day like the one-hoss shay. He looks about ahundred. I wonder how old he is?"

Doris smiled. 

"I imagine, " she said, "that he is not as old as he looks. He told methat his grandfather was married in short trousers and never lived toget in long ones. They begin life so early and just shuffle through it. "

"You find that thing in the South more than anywhere else. " Martin wasnodding understandingly. "It's like a dream--more like looking at lifethan living it. I suppose when they die they wake up and stretch andhave a laugh at what they feared and passed through in their sleep. "

"We will all do that, more or less, Davey. "

"More or less--yes!" Then suddenly:

"Doris, I think you can plan on three months in New York next winter. Myboy is coming on from the West. I'm going to take my shingle down andhang his up. "

"Really, David? Take yours _down_?" Doris looked dubious. 

"Yes. I'll stay around with him, but I'm going to put my shack on themap right under Blowing Rock. I've brought the plans to show you. "

Martin took them from his pocket and sat down beside Doris, and whilethey became absorbed, Nancy was climbing her way up Thunder Trail. 

Before she realized that she had come so far, she was in the open, thesunlight almost blinding her. She started back and screwed her eyes tomake sure that she saw aright. Not only was she out of the woods but shewas on the edge of a trim garden plot; there was a dilapidated cabinjust beyond it, and an ancient creature standing in the doorway. 

At first Nancy could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. Shehad never seen any one so old, and the eyes in the shrunken face werelike burning holes--caverns with fire in them!

Nancy was too stunned to move or speak. Her knowledge of the hillsforbade the usual fear, but a supernatural terror seized her and shewaited for the old woman--she decided it was a woman--to make the firstadvance. This the woman presently did. She turned, and with tremblinghaste took up a rusty spade by the door; she shuffled toward a corner ofthe opening and began to dig at a mound that was covered with looseearth. Weakly, fearfully, the claw-like hands worked while Nancy stoodfascinated and bewildered. Finally the old woman came toward her andthere was a tragic pathos on the wrinkled face that tended to quiet thegirl's rising fear. The cracked voice was pleading:

"How did yo' get out?" The words came anxiously and with difficulty, like the words of a deaf mute that had been taught to speakmechanically. 

Nancy smiled weakly and looked silently at the speaker. 

"Been tryin' to find hit?" the strained voice went on. "Yo' better liestill, Zalie--yo' larned enough, chile!"

And then, because the rigid girl did not speak, the old woman drewnearer. 

Nancy, believing herself in the presence of a harmlessly insanecreature, rallied her courage and sought to soothe, not excite, thewoman. 

"I'm lost, " she faltered. "I am sorry to have disturbed you; I am goingnow. "

She half turned, keeping her eyes on her companion. 

"Come--set a bit, " pleaded the crackling voice; "come warm yo'selfbefore I tuck yo' up again. How cold yo' little hands are! Po' littleZalie, jes' naturally--tryin' to find hit. "

There are limits of fear beyond which, for self-preservation, a kind ofcalm strength lies that suggests ways of safety. Nancy did not run orcry out, she did not withdraw her icy hands from the brown, claw-likefingers that held them; she even smiled a faint, ghastly smile thatreassured the old woman. Her eyes softened; her voice almost crooned. 

"Us-all is safe--no one comes nigh--it's comfortin' ter tech yo', Zalie, an' hit is well placed. Through all the years I done wanted to tell yo';I've said it by yo' grave many's the time, chile----" Becky waited amoment. She looked cautiously about the sun-lighted place and peeredinto the gloom of the forest-edge, then she looked again at Nancy, whileher thin hand pointed to the mound under the tree across the bit ofopen. Nancy shuddered. 

"What is--that?" she gasped. 

"Yo' little grave, Zalie--yo' little bed. I 'tend it loving and proper;I take a look-in onct so often--but yo' is cute, like yo' was when yo'stole out in the moonshine to larn. You done got out yo' grave when Iwasn't watching. Come, now, let me put yo' back!"

The old woman turned, and in that instant Nancy fled like a spirit. Noiselessly, swiftly she disappeared. She heard the crackling voicebehind her:

"Jes' creep back by yourself, eh, Zalie?" And then came the sound ofmetal patting down the loose earth on the mound by the solemn trees. 

Nancy could never tell what occurred on her descent from Thunder Peak. When she reached The Gap, she found that her dogs had strayed from her:they had either dropped behind or run before. She was not exhausted. Shefelt strong and calm. The adventure was assuming a thrilling proportionnow she was at a safe distance. But she had no intention of tellingDoris. Oddly enough, she felt the need of keeping it secret. Sheshivered as she recalled the touch of the claw-fingers and the sound ofthe dry, hard voice. She had a growing sense of uncleanness, now thatthe shock was wearing off. It almost seemed that a poison had been leftupon her that was eating its way into depths of her being. She wasafraid that someone would know; she trembled when old Jed remarked:

"Dis yere little ole pup don slink back like he seed a hant and he hadburrs stickin' to his sorry-lookin' hide--seems he was off the scent. No'count!"

Jed gave the hound a push with his foot, but he had set Nancy's nervestingling. 

"I lost the scent myself, " she said, striving for calmness. And thenrelying upon the old man's simplicity she asked, pointing across TheGap:

"What did you say was the name of that peak, Uncle Jed?" She wanted tomake very sure!

The old man raised his bleary eyes and looked troubled. He was consciousof something stirring in the dark of his mind. 

"Thunder, " he replied, then he laughed, and the gold in his fewremaining teeth glistened. Cackling and shuffling along beside Nancy, hemuttered--his mind again on old Becky:

"Her--as was--or her as is! Maybe she ain't a _was_--'pears like shecan't be an _is_. " Then he grew calmer and faced Nancy. "Stay away fromThunder, chile. 'Tain't safe, Thunder ain't--only fer hants. "

"I'll stay away, Uncle Jed, " Nancy promised fervently, and tried tolaugh off the foolish, superstitious fear that the old man's words hadaroused. 

Jed went off muttering--he was strangely disturbed. 

As the first impression of her adventure wore off Nancy was surprised tofind that a new fear and restlessness oppressed her. It was like theafter effects of a blow that had stunned her. 

She slept badly--a terrific electric storm swept through The Gap andthere seemed, to the frightened girl in the west chamber, noises neverheard before. Creaking steps in the hall; calls in the wind and sharpsummons as the branches of the trees lashed the windows and the blazinglightning shattered the darkness with blinding flashes. 

Nancy crept downstairs the next morning pale and shaken. She rallied, however, when she saw Doris. 

Doris was greatly affected by electric storms and was lying on a couchby the hearth. Doctor Martin was sitting beside her, and the littlebreakfast tray, laid for the three, was drawn close. 

They ate the meal quietly, and then Martin took up a book to read aloudwhile Nancy went to her loom. 

She huddled over it--there was no other word to describe her crouching, lax attitude; her face was drawn and haggard. Doris watched her; she wasnot listening to Martin. Suddenly she felt a kind of shock as sherealized that she was thinking of Nancy as an old woman!

As the spring holds all the promise of autumn in its delicate shading, so youth often depicts the time on ahead when line and colour will takeon the aspect of age. 

It was startling. Doris almost cried aloud. Nancy old! Nancy lean andshrivelled with her pretty back bent to--the burden of life!

Then Doris laughed nervously, and Martin started. The book he wasreading from was no laughing matter. 

"Forgive me, David--I was not listening; I was--planning. You know howagile a mind can be after--a bad headache?" This was not convincing toMartin and he scowled. 

"What were you planning?" he asked, and Nancy at her wheel turned herhead. 

"Nancy's winter in town. She must have loads of pretty things, and Iwill open the old house--perhaps we can lure Joan also, and have thetime of our lives. How would you like that Nan, girl?"

The tone was pleading, almost imploring. Doris had a sense of havingwronged the girl, somehow. 

"Oh, Aunt Dorrie, I should love it!" Nancy came across the room, allsuggestion of age gone. "That is--if it will not harm you, dear. "

"I think it would do you both good, " Martin spoke earnestly; "I begin torealize what you once said, Doris. One has to have the country in hisblood to be of the country. You must have change and"--turning toNancy--"give this child a chance to--to show off. "

He reached out and pinched Nancy's pale cheek. 

"Run out, " he commanded, suddenly; "run out into the sunshine and forgetthe storm. You're exactly like your aunt--conquer it, conquer it, child, while conquering is part of the programme. "

Nancy managed a smile, leaned and kissed Doris, waved a salute toMartin, and fled from the room. 

"David, somehow I've hurt that girl. " Doris spoke wearily. 

"How?" Martin questioned. 

Doris looked up and shook her head. 

"How have I, Davey? I cannot tell. "

"She's not hurt--but she's in line to be sacrificed if we don't lookout. I'm the guilty one--I thought only of you. "

And then the two planned for the winter. 

Nancy took her dogs and went for a walk--a safe and near walk. Thecolour crept into her pale face, but her eyes had a furtive look andevery noise in the bushes set her trembling. She had a conscious feelingof wanting to get away--far, far away. The Gap frightened her; sheremembered old stories about it. Suddenly she looked up at The Rock andher breath almost stopped. 

Fascinated, she stared; her eyes seemed to be following an invisiblefinger--The Ship was on The Rock!

Try as she might, Nancy could eat but little lunch. The small table wason the porch. Doris had recovered from her headache and was particularlygay--the planning for Nancy had done more for her than it had for Nancyherself. 

"You had better go to your room and lie down, " Martin suggested, eyeingthe girl. 

"Yes, I will, Uncle David. "

But once in the dim quiet of the west wing chamber fresh memoriesassailed her. 

This was the room, she recalled, into which Mary had seen--how absurd itwas!--the dolls turned to babies. Such foolish, childish memories tocling and grip! How much better to be like Joan and laugh away the idletales! Joan had always laughed--she was laughing now somewhere, lookingher gayest and forgetting troubling things. 

Then Nancy cried, not bitterly or enviously, but because she was tiredof playing Joan's accompaniment!

Presently she got up and bathed. 

"I'm going to Mary's!" she suddenly thought, and then felt as if she hadbeen getting ready to go all day. She felt deceitful, sly, in spite ofher constant reiteration that it had just occurred to her. 

She left the house unseen; she hid behind a bush when she saw the houndsraise their heads from the sunny porch--she wanted to go alone to thecabin across the river. 

It was three o'clock when she reached it, and she had hurried along theshort trail, too. Mary was not in sight, but the living-room door wasopen and Nancy stood looking in with a baffling sense of unreality; theplace looked different; almost as if she had never seen it before. Shementally took note of the furniture as though checking the pieces off. 

The big bed, gay with patchwork quilts--Nancy knew all the patterns:Sunrise on the Peaks; Drunkard's Path; the Rainbow--Mary was making upfor all that her forebears had neglected to do. Early and late she spunand wrought--she piled her bed high with the results of her labours; shecovered the floor with marvellous rugs; she filled her chest of drawerswith linen--Nancy glanced at the chest and fancied that she smelt thelavender that was spread on the folded treasures. 

How the candlesticks shone; how sweet and clean it was, how safe!

Nancy stepped inside and sat down. The logs were laid ready for thelighting on the cracked but dustless hearth. 

And then, quite unconsciously, the girl began to croon an old song, swaying back and forth, her arms folded and her eyes peaceful andwaiting. 

Mary, returning from her garden planting, stood by the door, unnoticed, and grimly took in the scene. 

What it was that disturbed and angered her she could not have told, butshe could not see Nancy sitting so--and--and--looking as she looked!

Mary strode across the room, causing Nancy to start nervously. 

"What ails yo'?" Mary asked, "you look powerful sorry. "

"I'm--I'm frightened, Mary. "

Oddly enough, it was easy to speak frankly to the stern, plain womanacross the hearth. And it was easy for Mary, after her first glance, tobe ready with anything that could comfort the girl near her. 

"What frightened yo'--the storm? I thought 'bout you. "

"Yes--the storm, but--Mary, who lives on Thunder Peak?"

Some people are unnerved by surprise; Mary was always steadied. 

"There ain't any one, " she said, quietly, and leaned over to light thefire; the afternoon was growing chilly. 

"Who used to live there, Mary? There is a cabin there. "

Mary did not flinch, but she was feeling her way, always a little aheadof Nancy. 

"There was an old woman lived there--long ago; she died. "

"Are you sure, Mary?"

"I'm right certain. She plumb broke down when she was ninety, and thatwas years back. "

"Mary, there's a grave there!"

"Yes; when folks die they just naturally have a grave. " A cold, icylight flickered in Mary's eyes; she reached and took up another log andcarefully placed it. 

"Mary, I went to Thunder Peak, I was following the trail. I camesuddenly into the open and I saw an old woman. She touched me"--hereNancy shuddered. "She--she seemed to--to think she knew me. She calledme a queer name. I cannot remember it. I was terribly frightened. Areyou _quite_, quite sure the old woman died, Mary?"

"She died, she surely died. Old women ain't such precious sights amongthe hills. Like as not it was someone from Huckleberry Bald, t'otherside of Thunder, as has taken over the deserted cabin and just wants tofrighten folks, like you, off. They are mighty cute, those old women onBald. They want their own place, and--and they sometimes shoot at anyone that comes nigh. "

The voice and words were cool and even. Nancy drew a long breath. 

"Oh, Mary, " she said, "you just take all the fear away. I kept feelingthat old hand on my arm as if it were dragging me; the feeling is gonenow. Jed said"--here Nancy wavered--"he said the place was haunted. "

"Jed was a born fool and yo' can't do much with that kind. They growsmore fool-like at the end. "

Nancy laughed. 

"I'm just a silly myself, " she said rising and stretching her prettyarms over her head as if awakening from sleep. Then:

"Mary, I'm going to New York next winter. Going to have--a wonderfultime. "

And now Mary looked up and her eyes brightened. 

"At last, " she muttered; "you're to have your chance!"

"My--chance, Mary?"

"Your chance--same as Miss Joan. "

And a moment later Mary was watching Nancy as she went singing down theriver road. 

"Gawd!" she muttered, and her yellowish skin paled. "Gawd! What has shecome back for?--what?" and Mary's eyes lifted to Thunder Peak. Later shemade ready for a long walk--she knew the trail to Thunder Peak would behard after the storm. 

CHAPTER XV

"_Every heart vibrates to that iron string. _"

And Mary's was vibrating to the iron as she plodded up the trail. 

There had been much damage done by the storm. Trees were lying acrossthe muddy path; there were washed-out spots, making it necessary to goout of one's way. But Mary did not notice the obstacles further than tomake a wide detour. She was thinking, thinking--patching her bits ofknowledge together with surmises provided by her vivid imagination. 

Beginning with the day when old Becky, looking for Sister Angela, hadstolen into the kitchen at Ridge House and demanded "her, " Marypatiently fitted her scraps into a pattern as she patched her wonderfulquilts. 

"Yes; no!" Then a stolid nodding of the head. 

The sunset, bye and bye, and then the early shadows, crept up the trailbehind the lonely woman plodding along; they seemed to swallow her, andonly her quick breathing marked her going. 

"I can pay--at last!" She paused and spoke the words aloud. 

"Pay back!"

Through the years since her return to The Gap she had saved and saved toreturn to Doris Fletcher the money advanced to buy the cabin. 

Mary had never accepted it as a gift; the cabin could never be reallyhers until, by the labour of her hands, she had redeemed it. 

What matter that her people called her "close" and mean? She knew whatshe was about, but in her slow, silent way she had learned, while shelaboured apart, to feel an undying gratitude to the woman who had madeeverything possible for her. 

And now she was taking her place beside them who had been her friends. No longer were they "foreigners. " Surely Mary had come to realize thatquality was not confined to places; it was in the heart and soul, and ifanything threatened it, why, then---- Here Mary drew herself up andraised her face to the stars. 

She had tears in her eyes, but her mouth drew in a hard line. She felt aburning curiosity rising in her consciousness. What did it all mean?What had it meant back in Ridge House long ago?

But as the burning rose higher and fiercer Mary battled with it. 

It was their secret! They must keep it--even from her! So would she paythough they might never know; _must_ never know! She would prove herselfworthy of the trust they had placed in her; she would even the score andhold danger, whatever the danger was, back. That should be her part toplay!

When Mary reached the clearing on Thunder Peak she stood where Nancy hadstood the day before and took in the scene. 

Two or three times, after her return to The Gap, she had gone to ThePeak and searched among the dirt and rubbish for any trace of old Becky. She had come to believe, at last, that the woman was dead--she had neverbeen seen after the death of Sister Angela. 

It was years now since Mary had given a thought to the deserted gardenand cabin--the clearing was at the trail's end and no one ever took it, for it led nowhere. 

But now, to Mary's astonished eyes, the garden appeared almost as wellplanted as her own, and from the chimney of the tumble-down cabin a lazycurl of smoke rose. Under the dark pine clump the outlines of a narrowmound could be plainly seen, and beside it lay a spade and a spray ofwithered azaleas. 

Mary's throat was dry and painful. People to whom tears are possiblenever know the agony, but Mary was used to it. 

Presently she walked across the open that lay between the edge of theforest and the cabin and stood by the threshold. 

The door hung by one hinge, and through the gap Mary saw old Becky! Shehad hoped against hope that what she had told Nancy might be true, butshe was prepared for the worst. 

It seemed incredible that this poor, wretched skeleton by the hearthcould be Becky--but Mary knew that it was. Back from her wandering thepitiful creature had come--home!

She had come as Mary herself had come--because the call of the hillsnever dies, but grows with absence. 

"Aunt Becky!"

The crone by the hearth paused in her stirring of corn-meal in a pan, but did not turn. 

"Aunt Becky!" And then the old woman staggered to her feet and facedMary. 

Not yet was the fire dead in the deep sockets--from out the caverns thelast sparks of life were making the eyes terrible. 

"Yo'--Mary Allan!" Contempt, more than fear, rang in the tones. "Whatyo' spyin' on me for, Mary Allan?"

Mary went inside. She was relieved by the fact that Becky knew her--shehad feared that she would find no response. She did not intend toquestion or argue; she meant to control the situation from the start. 

"Hit's in the grave 'long o' Zalie!" Becky was on her defence. "Zalie"--here the befogged brain went under a cloud--"Zalie she comea-looking--but hit's in the grave! I tell yo'-all, hit's in the grave!"

The trembling creature wavered in the firelight. She was filled withfear--but of what, who could tell?

Mary's face underwent a marvellous change--it grew tender, wistful. 

"Set, Aunt Becky, " she said, compassionately, and gently pushed thewoman into a deep rocker covered over with a dirty quilt; "set anddon't be frightened. I ain't come to hurt yo'--I've come to help. "

Becky seemed to shrink. 

"Hit's in----" she began, but Mary silenced her. 

"No hit ain't in the grave! Zalie she knows it--an' I know it!"

"Where is hit--then?" A cunning crept into Becky's cavernous eyes. "Where is hit?"

"Aunt Becky, no one must know! You want it--that way. " Inspirationguided Mary, or was it, perhaps, that iron strain, the strong humanstrain of her kind that led her true? "Zalie, she done come back; not tolook for hit, but to keep you from hit!"

The stroke told. Becky shrank farther in the chair. 

"Gawd!" she moaned--"it's that lonely! An' the longin' hurts powerfulsharp. "

Mary's face twitched. Did she not know?

"But hit!"--she whispered--"don't you love hit strong enough, AuntBecky, to let hit alone, where hit's happy, not knowing?"

There was something majestic about Mary as she kept her eyes upon theold woman while she pleaded with her. 

The past came creeping up on the two women by the ashy hearth--it gaveBecky strength; it blinded Mary. In the old woman's memory a pictureflashed--the picture that once had hung on the wall of Ridge House!

She folded her bony arms over her bosom and panted:

"Yes--I love hit--well enough!" The last hold was loosening. Then:

"It's powerful lonesome--and the cold and hunger bite cruel hard----"

"Aunt Becky, listen to me!" The woman turned her eyes to the speaker, but her thoughts were far, far away. 

"I'll come to you, Gawd hearing me; I'll ward off the cold and hunger. I'll come day after day--if you'll leave hit--where it can't ever know. "

Suddenly Becky's face grew sharp and cunning; all that was tender andhuman in her faded--self-preservation rose supreme. 

"I'll leave hit, Mary Allen, " she cackled, "but if yo' tell that hitain't in the grave 'long o' Zalie all the devils o' hell will watch outfor yo' soul!"

Mary was not listening. She rose and mechanically moved about thedisordered room. Like a sleep walker she set the rickety furniture inplace; she began to gather scraps of food together--hunting, hunting incorners and cupboards. She made some black coffee--rank andevil-smelling it was--and finally she set the strange meal before theold woman. 

Becky eyed the repast as one might who fancied that she dreamed. Cautiously she touched the food with her lean fingers, then she clutchedit and ate ravenously, desperately fearing that it might disappear. 

Mary looked on in divine pity, swaying to and fro, never speaking norgoing near. 

She was thinking; thinking on ahead. She would make the cabin clean andwhole; she would wash and clothe the poor creature now eating like ahungry wolf; she would feed her. Becky should become--hers!

Then Mary's mouth relaxed. She was appropriating, adjusting. Somethingof her very own at last! Something that would wait for her, watch forher, depend upon her. Something to work for and live for; something uponwhom she might pour forth the hidden riches that had all but perished inher soul. 

It was midnight when Mary groped her way from the cabin. Becky wasasleep on the miserable bed in the corner; she was breathing softly andevenly like a baby. 

Outside, the moonlight lay full upon the open spaces and on the littlegrave under the pine clump. Mary stood, before entering the woods, andraised her head. 

"I'm paying--I'm paying back what--I owe, " she murmured, and all thewretched company of her early childhood seemed to hold out imploringhands to her. Her father, her mother, the line of miserable brothers andsisters who never had their chance!

Sister Angela came, too, her cross gleaming, her eyes kind and just. Doris Fletcher and her blessed giving; giving of the marvellous chanceat last! And lastly, Nancy, with her beautiful face, Nancy who must notbe cheated, Nancy who--trusted her! Nancy who _might_ be--but no! Maryran on. She would not know! She must not!

And so it was that the last of the Allans redeemed the debt and silentlyfound peace for her proud heart. 

She was released! She had proven herself, though no one must ever know. It was the not knowing that would mark her highest success. 

On the morrow Mary went to Ridge House quite her usual reserved self. 

Nancy met her with the brightest of smiles. 

"Doctor Martin has gone away, Mary, " she explained, "and now I will beterribly busy, but next winter--oh! next winter, Mary, Joan will be withus in the dear old house. A letter came to-day--she is going to takelessons from a very great teacher. Do you remember how Joan could sing, Mary? I shall play for her again and be so happy. It's wonderful howhappy one can be, Mary, when one isn't afraid and just goes singingahead. I cannot sing like Joan, but I can scare away fears!"

Mary regarded the girl with a hungry craving in her eyes over which thelids were drawn to a slit. There was a fierce intentness in the gaze:the look of the runner who has almost reached the goal but hears hispursuers close. 

CHAPTER XVI

"_And they planted their feet on the 'Sun Road'. _"

If the spring has a direct and concentrated effect upon a young man'sfancy, it must have equal effect upon a young woman's, else the man'swould perish and come to look upon the spring as the lean part of theyear. Joan had meant all she said when, in the strength and virtue ofher youth, she had drawn herself away from Kenneth Raymond and proudlyremarked:

"Certainly not! And I am not afraid. "

Both statements were sincere and should have brought her peace andsatisfaction. They did neither. 

Raymond had, apparently, taken her at her word, and sought other placesin which to appease his hunger, and Joan turned to Patricia, for Sylviawas called out of town. 

That dream of a frieze that had long smouldered in Sylvia's soul hadbroken bounds and a rich man, erecting a summer home on theMassachusetts coast, having seen some of Sylvia's work, had invited herdown to "talk over" the frieze idea. 

"And he'll let me do it!" Sylvia had confided breathlessly to Joan asshe packed her suitcase. "I can always tell when a thing is going tocome true. Now if I had shown him sketches he might not have takenme--but when I can _talk_ my pictures all along the walls of his big, sunny room it will be another matter. 

"Blue background"--Sylvia was forgetting Joan as she rambled on, punching and jamming her clothing into the case--"and a bit of a storyrunning through the frieze--a kind of sea-nymph search for the HolyGrail--stretching from the door back _to_ the door. Can't you see it, Joan?"

Joan could not. She was seeing something else. Something daily becomingvisualized. A seeking, yearning desire issuing from her soul and tryingto find--what?

"You'll have Pat here?" suddenly asked Sylvia. "I'd rather have someonebesides Pat, but the others are either away or worse than Pat. You'regood for Pat if she isn't for you. You sort of stiffen her up--she toldme so. Pat needs whalebone. When her purse gets flat her morals dwindle;mine always get scared stiff. I'll write twice a week, Joan, my lamb, Sunday and Wednesday. I'll be back before long. "

And off Sylvia went with her heavy bag and her light heart, and Joancalled Patricia up on the telephone. 

"All right, " Patricia responded, "but if I get homesick for these rooms, I must be free to come. "

"Of course, " Joan agreed. 

Patricia was in a dangerous mood and Joan was vividly alive toimpressions. 

Patricia was writing verses as a bird carols--just letting them pourout. She was selling them, too, and running out to New Jersey to talkover with Mr. Burke the publication of a book. 

"I cannot see, " Patricia had said to Sylvia, "why one should feel itnecessary to stick to hot, smelly offices when a library, looking outover acres of country, is at one's disposal. "

"Is Mrs. Burke there?"

Sylvia had a terrible way of stepping on toes when she was making herpoint. 

"Certainly!" Patricia flung back--it happened that the lady was therefor a brief time--"though, " Patricia went on, "she doesn't sit on thearm of my chair while styles of paper are considered. You're low-minded, Syl. "

Patricia looked so high-minded just then that everyone laughed atSylvia's expense. 

And Joan, because she was young as the year was, kept remembering theeyes, and feeling the touch of Kenneth Raymond. There were no words toexplain her mood, but she remembered the sound of his voice--and shewanted to see him again!

She believed her emotions were grounded upon the fact that she knew agood deal about Raymond--more than he suspected. He was of Aunt Doris'ssafe and clean world. He was only dipping into a pool outside of his ownlegitimate preserves to touch, as he thought, a lily that should not bethere!

Raymond had suggested this to Joan. He fancied, from his conservativelimitations, that the Brier Bush was rather a dubious pool!

"If he only knew!" Joan thought, and was glad that he did not. Howhumdrum it all would have been had he known! As it was, the wonderfulfeeling she had was laid upon a very safe foundation--not even AuntDoris or Sylvia could object--and she would tell them all about it someday, and it would be part of the free, happy life and a proof that noharm can come where one understands the situation and has high motives. 

But Raymond did not come to the Brier Bush, and so Joan had to concludethat he had not that unnamable emotion which was taking her appetiteaway, and he was forgetting, perhaps, all about that line that ran inthe palms of both of them!

As a matter of fact, Raymond was trying very diligently to do just thatthing. He worked hard and paid extra attention to Mrs. Tweksbury. 

"My boy!" Emily Tweksbury urged, "come up to Maine with me for thesummer, you look peaked. "

Raymond laughed. 

"How about business?" he said. 

"Of course, " Mrs. Tweksbury replied, "no one appreciates more than I do, Ken, your moral fibre. It's a big thing for you to create a business iffor no other reason than to give employment to less fortunate young men;but you have other responsibilities. Your position, your fortune, theymake demands. I'm not one to underestimate the leisure class; I know theold joke about tramps being the only leisure class in America; it's asilly joke, but it ought to make us think. After a bit, if we don't lookout, the leisure class, here, will be all women. They'll dominate artand poetry and society--and I must say I like a good _team_. I nevercared for too much of any one thing. Ken?"

"Yes, Aunt Emily. "

"I want you to marry and have--a place. "

"A place, Aunt Emily?" Raymond looked puzzled. 

"Yes. Make a stand for American aristocracy--though of course you mustcall it by another name. You're a clean, splendid chap--I know all aboutyou. I've watched apart and prayed over you in my closet. You see yourfather and I made a ghastly mess of our lives, but we kept to thecode--for your sake. We left your path clear, thank God!"

"Yes, Aunt Emily--I've thanked God for that, too, in what stands for_my_ closet. "

"What stands for your closet, Ken? I've always wanted to know what takesthe place of women's sanctuaries in the lives of men. "

Raymond plunged his hands into his pockets--he and Mrs. Tweksbury hadjust finished breakfast, and the dining room of the old-fashioned houseopened, as it should, to the east. 

"Oh! I don't know that I can tell you, Aunt Emily, " Raymond fidgeted. "Fellows are beginning to think a bit more about the clean places inwomen's lives. I reckon that we haven't so much an idea aboutsanctuaries of ours as that we are cultivating an honest-to-Goddetermination to keep from making wrecks of women's shrines. I know thissounds blithering, but, you see, a decent chap wants to ask some girl togive him a better thing than forgiveness when the time comes. He wantsto cut out the excuse business. He doesn't want women like you to beashamed of him--when they come where they have to call things by theirright names. "

"Ken, I don't believe you're in good form. You'd much better come up toMaine!"

Emily Tweksbury looked as if she wanted to cry; her expression was socomical that Raymond laughed aloud. 

"I'll come in August, " he said at last. "I'll take the whole month andfrivol with you. "

Mrs. Tweksbury was, however, not through with what she had to say. Shelooked at the big, handsome fellow across the room and he seemedsuddenly to become very young and helpless, very much needing guidance, and yet she knew how he would resent any such interference in his life. 

"What's on your mind, Aunt Emily?"

Raymond had turned the tables--he smiled down upon the old lady with themasterful tenderness of youth. 

"Let's have it, dear. "

Mrs. Tweksbury resorted to subterfuge. 

"Well, having you off my hands, " she said, smiling as if she reallymeant what she said, "I am thinking of Doris Fletcher!"

"Do I know her?" Raymond tried to think. 

"No. She left New York just about the time you came to me. She's awonderful woman, always was. Has a passion for helping others live theirlives--she's never had time to live her own. "

"Bad business. " Raymond shook his head. 

"Oh! I don't know, boy. The older I grow the more inclined I am tobelieve that it is only by helping others live that one lives himself. "

This was trite and did not get anywhere, so Mrs. Tweksbury plunged atrifle. 

"Doris Fletcher is going to bring her niece out next winter; wants me tohelp launch her. "

Raymond made no response to this. He was not apt to be suspicious, buthe waited. 

"She has twin nieces. Her younger sister died at their birth--she made asad marriage, poor girl, and the father of her children seems to havebeen blotted off the map. The Fletchers were always silent and proud. Igreatly fear one of the twins takes after her obliterated parent, forDoris rarely mentions her--it is always Nancy who is on exhibition; theother girl is doing that abominable thing--securing her economicfreedom, whatever that may mean. Doris has tried to make me understand, but how girls as rich as those girls are going to be can want to go outand support themselves I do not understand--it's thieving. Nothing less. Taking bread from women who haven't money. "

Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scornfully and Raymond laughed. He wasn'tinterested. 

Mrs. Tweksbury saw she was losing ground and made a third attempt. 

"But this Nancy seems another matter. I remember her, off and on. I wasoften away when the Fletchers were home, and the girls were at school agood many years, but this Nancy is the sort of child that one doesn'tforget. She's lovely--very fair--and exquisite. Her poor mother wasalways charming, and I imagine Doris Fletcher means to see that Nancygets into no such snarl as poor Meredith's--Meredith was Doris's sister. Ken----!"

"Yes'm!" Raymond was looking at his watch. 

"I wish you'd lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton. "

Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury. 

"You're about as opaque, " he said, "as crystal. Of course I'll lend ahand, Aunt Emily--_lend_ one, but don't count upon anything more. I--Ido not want to marry--at least not for many years. My father and motherdid not leave a keen desire in me for marriage. "

"Oh! Ken, can't you forget?"

"I haven't yet, Aunt Emily, but I'm not a conceited ass; your Miss Nancywould probably think me a dub; girls don't fly at my head, but I'm safeas a watchdog and errand boy--so I'll fit in, Aunt Emily. "

He bent and kissed her. 

A week later the old house was draped and covered with ghostly linen andevery homelike touch eliminated according to the sacred rites of the oldr�gime; and man, that most domestic of all animals, was left to thecontemplation of a smothered ideal--the ideal of home. 

Mrs. Tweksbury, with two servants, started by motor for Maine. 

"I may not be progressive in some ways, " she proudly declared, "but amotor car keeps one from much that is best avoided--crowds, noise, andconfusion. And I always insist that I am progressive where progress isworth while. "

But, alone in the still house, Raymond felt as if a linen cover alsoenshrouded him--he lost his appetite and took to lying at night with hishands clasped under his head--thinking! Thinking, he called it--but hewas only drifting. He was abdicating thought. He got so that he couldsee himself as if detached from himself----

"And a dub of a chap, too, I look to myself, " he reflected, ambiguously. "I wonder just what stuff is in me, anyway? I've been trained to thelimit, and I have a decent idea about most things, but I wonder if Icould pull it off, if I were up against it like some other fellows whohave rowed their own boats? Having had Dad and Aunt Emily in my blood, has given me a twist, and the money has tied the knot. I don't knowreally what's in me--in the rough--and there _is_ a rough in everyfellow--maybe it's sand and maybe it's plain dirt. "

This was all as wild and vague as anything Patricia or Joan couldevolve. It came of the season and the everlasting youth of life. 

"I'm going to talk over the rot with that little white thing down at theBrier Bush, " Raymond declared one night to that self of his that stoodoff on inspection; "what's the harm? She's got the occult bug, and I'mkeen about it just now. No one will be the worse for me having thetalk--she's all right and that veil of hers leaves us a lot freer tospeak out than face to face would. " And then Raymond switched on thelights and read certain books that held him rigid until he heard themilkman in the street below. 

In those nights Raymond learned to know that sounds have shades, asobjects have. Below, following, encompassing there were vague, hauntingechoes. Even the rattling of milk cans had them; the steps of thewatchman; the wind of early morning that stirs the darkness!

And then in the end Raymond did quite another thing from what he hadplanned. He left the office one day at four-thirty and walked uptown. Hepaced the block on which the Brier Bush was situated until he began tofeel conscious--then he walked around the block, always hurrying untilhe came in sight of the tea room. He felt that all the summerinhabitants of the city were drinking tea there that afternoon, and hebegan to curse them for their folly. 

It was five-forty-five when Joan came down the steps. 

Raymond knew her at once by her walk. He had always noted that swing ofhers under her white robe. He did not believe another girl in the worldmoved in just that way--it was like the laugh that belonged with it. Indifferent, pleading, sweet, and brave--a bit daring, too. Joan was allin white now. A trim linen suit; white stockings and shoes; a white silkhat with a wide bow of white--Patricia kept her touch on Joan'swardrobe. 

Raymond waited until the girl before him had pulled on her long glovesand reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, then he walked rapidly andovertook her. He feared that he was leaping; he felt crude and rough;but he had never been simpler and more sincere in his life. Theelemental was overpowering him, that was all. 

"Good afternoon!" he blurted into Joan's astonished ears; "where are yougoing?"

Joan turned and confronted him, not in alarm, but utter rout. Naturallythere was but one course for a girl to take at such a juncture--but Joandid not take it. Her elementals were alert, too, and she, too, hadreached the stage when sounds know shades, and above any cautious appealwas the fear of sending this man adrift again. 

"I wonder"--Raymond spoke hurriedly; he wanted to drive that startledlook out of the golden eyes--"I wonder if you're the sort that knowstruth when she sees it--even if it has to cover itself with the rags ofthings that aren't truth?"

At this Joan laughed. 

"I am afraid the heat has affected you, " was what she said, gently. 

"Well, anyway, you're not afraid of me!" Raymond saw that her eyes hadgrown steady. 

"Oh! no. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not often afraid of anything. "

"I thought that. You wouldn't be doing that stunt at the Brier Bush ifyou were the scary kind. " Raymond accompanied his step to Joan's asnaturally as if she had permitted him to do so. 

"I don't see why you speak as you do of my business, " Joan interjected. "It's how one interprets what one does that matters. I make a very goodincome of what you term my stunt. Perhaps you're accustomed to girls whouse such means--wrongfully. "

Joan felt quite proud of her small sting, but Raymond broke in joyously:

"You're mighty clever; you've struck on just what I mean. See here, youdon't know me and I don't know you----" At this Joan turned her faceaway. "And I'm jolly glad we don't. It makes it all easier. I know verylittle about girls--I dance with them and things like that when I haveto, but as a class I never cottoned to them much, nor they to me. I knowthe ugly names tacked to things that might be innocent and happy enough. Now your business--it could be a cover for something ratherdifferent----?"

"But it isn't!" Joan broke in, hotly. 

"I'm sure of that, but hear me out. There's something about youthat--that's got me. I can't forget you. I only want to know what youcare to give--the part that escapes the disguise that you wear! I wantto talk to you. I bet we have a lot to say to each other. Don't you seeit would be like fencing behind a shield? But how can we make this outunless we utilize chances that might, if people were not decent andhonest, be wrong? I know I'm getting all snarled up--but I'm trying tomake you understand. "

"You're not doing it very well. " Joan was sweetly composed. 

"Now suppose you and I were introduced--you with your veil off--thatwould be all right, wouldn't it?"

Raymond was collecting his scattered wits. 

"Presumably. Yes--it would, " Joan returned. 

"And then we could have all the talks we wanted to, couldn't we?"

"Within proper limitations, " Joan nodded, comically prim under thecircumstances. 

"But for reasons best known to you, " Raymond went on, slowly, "you wantto keep the shield up? All right. But then if we want the talks----"

"I don't want them!" Joan's voice shook. Poor, lonely little thing, shewanted exactly that!

"I bet that's not true!" ventured Raymond. Then suddenly:

"Why do you laugh as you do?"

"What's the matter with my laugh?"

"I don't know. It's old and it's awfully kiddish--it's rather upsetting. I keep remembering it as I always shall your face now that I have seenit!"

Truth can take care of itself if it has half a chance. It was beginningto grip Joan through the mists that shrouded her--mists that life hasevolved for the protection of those who might never be able todistinguish between the wolf in sheep's skin and sheep in wolf hide. 

Joan knew the ancient code of propriety, but she knew, also, the ring oftruth and she was young and lonely. She knew she ought not to be playingwith wild animals, but she was also sure in the deepest and most sincereparts of her brain that the man beside her, strange as it might seem, was really a very nice and well-behaved domestic animal and was makingrather a comical exhibition of himself in the skin of the beast of prey. 

"You haven't told me where you are going, " Raymond said, presently. 

"Home!" The one word had the dreary, empty sound that it could not helphaving when Joan considered the studio with Sylvia gone and Patricia anuncertain element. 

"Are you?" Raymond asked, lamely. One had to say something or turn back. Joan felt like crying. Then suddenly Raymond said:

"I wish you'd come and have dinner with me, and I'm not going to excusemyself or explain anything. I know I'm using all the worn-out tricks offellows that are anything but decent; but I know that you know--thoughhow you do I'm blest if _I_ know--but I know that you understand. Thething's too big for me. I've just got to risk it! I'm lonely and I betyou are; we've got to eat--why not eat together?"

The words sounded like explosives, and Joan mentally dodged, but at theend felt that she knew all there was to know and she caught her breathand said very slowly:

"I'm going to be quite as honest as you are. I will have dinner with youbecause I'm as lonely as can be; my people, like yours, are out of town, and I _do_ understand though I cannot say just how I do. One thing Iwant you to promise: You will never, under any circumstances, try tofind out more about me than I freely give. Now or--ever! When Idisappear, I want really to be safe from intrusion. "

Raymond promised, and so they set out on the Sun Road. 

CHAPTER XVII

"_It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easyin solitude to live after our own. _"

The trouble with the Sun Road is this: one is apt to be blinded by theglare. 

In their solitude, the solitude of a big city, Raymond and Joan trod theshining way with high courage. 

This was romance in an age when romance was supposed to be dead! Herethey were, they two, nameless--for they decided upon remainingso--living according to their own codes; feeling more and more secure, as time passed, that they were safe and were wisely enjoying what soeasily might have been lost had they been limited in faith. 

"It's the line in our hands!" Raymond declared. "It means something, allright. Think what we must have missed had we been unjust to each otherand ourselves. "

Joan nodded. 

The sun and the dust of the pleasant highway had blinded her completelyby the end of a week. 

Patricia was a missing quantity most of the time. Patricia had taken tothe Sun Road, also, but with her eyes wide open. If Patricia ever turnedaside it would be because she knew the danger, not because she did not. 

She never explained her absences nor her private affairs to Joan. Whenshe did appear at Sylvia's studio she was quiet and nervous. 

"It's the heat, " she explained. "I'm not hot, but I cannot get enoughair to breathe. "

Meanwhile, Sylvia was basking in success and cool breezes on theMassachusetts coast. Her letters had the tang of the sea. 

And Raymond was always on hand, now, at the dinner hour. He was like aboy, and took great pride in his knowledge of just the right places toeat. Quiet, but not too quiet; good food, and, occasionally, good music, and if the night was not too hot, a dance with Joan which set his verysoul to keeping time. 

"Gee!" he said, after their first dance; "I wonder what you are, anyway?Do you do everything--to perfection?"

Joan twinkled. 

"Every man must decide that for himself, " she replied with a charmingturn of her head. 

"Every--man?" Raymond's face fell. 

"Certainly. You don't think you are the only man, do you?"

"Well, the only one left in town. "

Raymond gave a little laugh and changed the subject. He had no intentionof getting behind his companion's screen. With a wider conception of hispath, he more diligently kept to the middle. 

After the first fortnight he even went so far as to arrange for businessengagements, now and then, in order to keep his brain clear. 

Joan always met these empty spaces in her days with a keen sense of losswhich she hid completely from Raymond. 

His business demands were offset by her skilfully timed escapes from theBrier Bush. She would either be too early or too late for Raymond, andso while he paid homage to his code, Joan appeared to make the codeunnecessary. 

And the weather became hotter and moister and the moral and physicalfibre of the city-bound became limper. 

After a week of not seeing each other Joan and Raymond made up for losttime by galloping instead of trotting along. 

"Stevenson and O. Henry couldn't beat this adventure of ours, " Raymondexclaimed one evening, wiping the moisture from his forehead. "And I betthousands of folks would think better of one another if----"

"If--they had the line in their hands, " Joan broke in; "but theyhaven't, you know!"

"Exactly. "

Just then Raymond made a bad break. He asked Joan if she did not trusthim well enough to give him her telephone number. 

"Something might occur, " he said, "business pops up unexpectedly. I hateto lose a chance of seeing you--and I hate to wait on street corners. "

"I am sorry, " Joan replied, "but that would spoil everything. "

Raymond flushed. It was just such plunges as this that made him recoil. 

"I understand, " he replied, coolly; "I had hoped that you could trustme. "

"It is not a matter of trust. It's keeping to the bargain. "

There was nothing more to say. But, quite naturally, several dayselapsed before they saw each other again. 

Fierce, broiling days without even the debilitating moisture to ease thesuffering citizens. 

Joan, alone in the dark, hot studio, thought of Doris and Nancy andwondered!

"Of course, what I am doing would be horrid if I didn't know all about_him_, " and then Joan tossed about. "Some day--it will be such a lark totell them--and think of his surprise when he--knows! I'll see him withall barriers down next winter, " for at this time Joan had written andaccepted all Doris's plans for her. She was to study musicdeterminedly--she had a proud little bank account--and she would live atthe old house and revel in Nancy's social triumphs. 

And Raymond, in his shrouded house, had his restless hours and withgreater reason, for he was playing utterly in the dark and had toacknowledge to his grim, off-standing self that, except for the factthat he was in the dark, he would not dare play the very amusing game hewas playing. 

"If she is masquerading, " Raymond beat about with his conscience, "it'sthe biggest lark ever, and she and I will have many a good laugh overit. "

"_But if she--isn't?_" demanded the shadowy self. 

"Well, if she isn't, she jolly well knows how to take care of herself!Besides, I'm not going to hurt her. Why, in thunder, can't two fellowcreatures enjoy innocent things without having evil suggestions?"

"_They can!_" thundered the Other Self, "_but this isn't innocent--atleast it is dangerous_. "

"Oh! be hanged!" Raymond flung back and the Shadow sank into oblivion. 

Left to himself--one of his selves--Raymond resorted to sentiment. 

"Of course we both know--under what might be--what _is_. She's likeKipling's girl in the Brushwood Boy. "

But that did not take in the Other Self in the least. It laughed. 

When July came the heat settled down in earnest on the panting city. 

"Aren't you going to take any vacation?" asked Raymond. He and Joan weresauntering up Fifth Avenue to a certain haven in a backyard where thefountain played and the birds sang. 

"No. I'm going to stay in town and let Miss Gordon have her outing. TheBrier Bush is too young to be left alone this year. Next year it will bemy turn. "

"I'm afraid you'll wilt, " Raymond looked at the blooming creature besidehim. "Funny, isn't it, how things turn out? I expected to go in Augustto--to that lady with whom you first saw me" (Joan looked divinelyinnocent); "but only yesterday she informed me that she had resolved togo abroad, and asked if it would make any difference to me. She's likethat. Her procedure resembles jumping off a diving plank. "

"Well, does it make any difference?" Joan asked. 

"You bet it does! It makes me free to stay in town. "

"I'm afraid you'll wilt, " Joan twinkled. 

"We must take precautions against that. " Raymond looked deadly inearnest. 

The meetings of these two were now set, like clear jewels in the roundof common days. They were not too frequent and they were always managedlike chance happenings. Always there was a sense of surprise, a thrillof unbelievable good luck attending them; but there was, also, a growingsense of assurance and understanding. 

"I wonder, " Joan said once, pressing hard against the shield thatprotected them, "I wonder if you and I would have played so delightfullyhad we been--well--introduced! Miss Jones and Mr. Black. "

"No!" Raymond burst in positively. "Miss Jones would have been envelopedin the things expected of Miss Jones, and Mr. Black would have been keptbusy--keeping off the grass!"

"Aren't you ever afraid, " Joan mused on, "that some day we'll suddenlycome across each other when our shields are left behind in--in thesecret tower?"

"I try not to think of it, " Raymond leaned toward the girl; "but if wedid we'd know each other a lot better than most girls and fellows areever allowed to know each other, " he said. 

"Do you think so?" Joan looked wistfully at him. "You see this isn'treal; it's play, and I'm afraid Miss Jones and Mr. Black would beawfully suspicious of each other--just on account of the play. "

"And so--we'll make sure that shields are always in commission, " Raymondreassured her. "In this small world of ours we cannot run any risks withMiss Jones and Mr. Black. They have no part here. "

"No, they haven't!" Joan leaned back. That subtle weakness was touchingher; the aftermath of strained imagination. She was often homesick forDoris and Nancy--she was getting afraid that she might not be able tofind her way back to them when the time came to go. 

"Poor little girl!" Raymond was saying over the table, and his wordsfitted into the tune the fountain sang--it was the same tune thefountain sang in the sunken room of long ago; all fountains, Joan hadgrown to think, sang the same lovely, drippy song. 

"I wonder just how brave and free a little girl it is?"

Joan screwed up her lips. 

"Limitless, " she whispered, daringly. 

"You're played out, child!" Raymond went on; "there are blue shadowsunder your eyes. I wish you'd let me do something for you. "

"You are doing something, " the words came slowly, caressingly; "you'remaking a hard time very beautiful; you're making me believe--in--infairies, or what stands for fairies, nowadays; you're making me trustmyself and for ever after when--when I slip back where I belong--I'mgoing to remember, and be--so glad! You see, I know, now, that in theworld of grown-ups you _can_ make things come true. "

"Where you belong?" Raymond gripped his hands close. "Just where do youbelong? _Are_ you Miss Jones or are you the sweet nameless thing that Iam looking at?"

"Oh! I'm Miss Jones!" Joan sat up promptly, "and I'm going to make surethat Miss Jones doesn't get hurt while I play with her. "

And as she spoke Joan was thinking of the ugly interpretation of thisbeautiful play which Patricia would give. Patricia couldn't make thingscome true because she never tried hard enough. 

"I wonder"--and the fountain made Joan dizzy as she listened toRaymond--"I wonder, now since I'm to stay in town, if you'd let me bringmy car in? We'd have some great old rides. We'd cool off and havepicnics by roadsides and--and get the best of this blasted heat. "

"I think it would be heavenly!" Joan saw, already, cool woods and feltthe refreshing air on her face. 

Raymond was taken aback. He had expected protest. 

But the car materialized and so did the picnics and the cool breezes onyoung, unafraid faces. 

At each new venture reassurance waxed stronger--things could be madetrue in the world; it was only children who failed, in spite oftradition. 

Just at this time Sylvia came to town radiating success and happiness. 

The result was disastrous. There are times when one cannot endure theprosperity of his friends! Had Sylvia come back with her bannerstrailing, Joan and Patricia would have rallied to her standard, but shewas cool, crisp, and her eyes were fixed upon a successful future. 

She was going to do, not only the frieze, but a dozen other things. People whom she had met had been impressed. Things were coming her waywith a vengeance. One order was in the Far West--a glorified cabin in acanyon. 

"I'm to do all the interior decorating, " Sylvia bubbled; "a little outof my line, but they feel I can do it. And"--here the girl lookedblissful--"it will be near enough for my John to come and take avacation. "

Patricia and Joan, at that moment, knew the resentment of the unattachedwoman for the protected one. Sylvia appeared the child of the gods whilethey were merely permitted to sit at the gates and envy her triumphs. 

"I suppose, " Patricia burst in, "that this means the end?"

"End?" Sylvia looked puzzled. 

"Yes. Plain John will gobble you, Art and all. But your duties here----"Patricia with a tragic gesture pointed to Joan. "What of Miss Lamb, notto mention me?"

Sylvia looked serious. 

"Joan is to study music next winter, " she said; "haven't you told Pat, Joan?"

Joan shook her head. She had almost forgotten it herself. 

"And live with her people, " Sylvia went on and then, noticing Patricia'spale little face, she burst forth:

"Pat, take that offer from Chicago that you've been thinking about! It'sa big thing--designing for that firm. It will make you independent, leave you time to scribble, and give you a change. Pat, do be sensible. "

Patricia drew herself up. She felt that she was being disposed of simplyto get her out of the way. She resented it and she was hurt. 

"I do not have to decide just now, " she said, coldly; "and don't fussabout me, Syl. Now that you and Joan are provided for I can jog along atmy own free will, and no one will have to pay but me!"

"Pat!" Joan broke in, "you and I will stick together. And it's all rightabout Syl. What is this one life for, anyway, if it does not leave usfree? Syl, marry your John--your art won't suffer! Pat, where I go yougo next winter. "

But Patricia lighted a cigarette, and while the smoke issued from herpretty little nose she sighed. 

What happened was this: Patricia shopped and sewed for Sylvia and madeher radiantly ready for her trip West. And Joan, feeling the breakfinal, although she did not admit it, forsook her own pleasures whileshe helped Patricia and clung to Sylvia. 

"Pat has sublet her rooms, " she confided to Sylvia one day, "and iscoming here until our lease is up; so you are foot-loose, my preciousSyl, and God bless you!"

In August Sylvia departed and Joan and Patricia set up housekeepingtogether. But at the end of the first week, and the beginning of a newhot spell, Joan found a note on her pillow one night when she came in, exhausted:

 Had to get cool somewhere. I'm not responsible for losing my breath. Take care of yourself. 

"This seems the last straw!" sobbed Joan, for Raymond had told her thatday at the Brier Bush that important business was taking him out oftown. 

"He has to catch his breath, " poor Joan cried, miserably, quite as ifher own background was eliminated; "but what of my breath? And to-day isSaturday, and----" The bleak emptiness of a hot Sunday in the stiflingstudio stretched ahead wretchedly, like a parched desert. 

That night Joan pulled her shade down. She hated the stars. They lookedcomplacent and distant. She pushed memories of Doris and Nancyresolutely from her. Her world was not their world--that was sure. Ifthis desperate loneliness couldn't drive her to them, nothing could. Shemust make her own life! Lying on her hot bed, Joan thought and thought. Of what did she want to make her life?

"I only want a decent amount of fun, " she cried, turning her pillowover, "and I will not have strings tied to all my fun, either. "

This struck her as funny even in her misery. She sat up in bed andcounted her losses--what were they?

Ridge House and that dear, sweet life--sheltered and safe. Yes; she wassure she had lost them, for she could not go back beaten before she hadreally tried her luck, and if she succeeded she could never have them ina sense of ownership. 

"And I will succeed!" Even in that hard hour Joan rose up in arms. 

"And I have earned enough to begin real work in the autumn. " She countedher gains. "And I can live close to Aunt Dorrie's beautiful life even ifI am not of it. And I _am_ sure of myself as dear Nancy never couldbe--because I have proved myself in ways that girls like Nancy nevercan. "

Toward morning Joan fell asleep. When she awoke it was nearly noon timeand half the desert of Sunday was passed. 

Then Joan, refreshed and comforted, planned a wholesome afternoon andevening. 

"I'll go out and get a really sensible dinner; take a walk in the Park, and come home and practise. Monday will be here before I know it. "

Joan carried out her programme, and it was five o'clock when shereturned, at peace with the whole world. 

She took off her pretty street gown and slipped into a thin, airy littledress and comfortable sandals. The sandals made her think of herdancing; she always wore them unless she danced shoeless. 

"And before I go to bed, " she promised her gay little self, "I'll have adance to prove that nothing can down me--for long!

"I wonder--" here Joan looked serious as if a thought wave had struckher--"I wonder where Pat is?"

This seemed a futile conjecture. Patricia was too elusive to befollowed, even mentally. 

As a matter of fact, Patricia was, at that hour, confronting the biggestquestion of her life. 

Heretofore she had always left her roads of retreat open, had, in fact, availed herself of them at critical periods; but this time she had, shebelieved, so cluttered them that they were practically impassable andshe said she "didn't care. "

The heat and her rudderless life had been too much for her; she had, too, been honestly stirred by beautiful things--although they were nothers nor could ever rightfully be hers. She had slipped into the danger, that seemed now about to engulf her, on a gradual decline. 

Her connection with the Burke home life was, apparently, innocent enoughat first. No one but Patricia herself sensed what really wasthreatening, but the conditions were ripe for what occurred. 

Mrs. Burke, bent upon her own pleasure, utterly indifferent to therights of others, was glad enough to leave her house and family to thecharm of Patricia while she could, at the same time, as she smilinglydeclared, give a bit of happiness to that poor, gifted young creature. 

The gifted young creature responded with all the hunger of her emptyheart--she played with the children, who adored her; there was safetywith the eyes of housekeeper and governess upon her--but when the eyesof a tired, disillusioned, and lonely man became fixed upon her, it wastime for Patricia to flee. But she did not. Instead she gripped herphilosophy of "grab"--and really managed to justify it to a certainextent--while she grew thinner and paler. 

On the Sunday when Joan stopped short and wondered where Patricia was, Patricia was up the Hudson awaiting, on a charming hotel piazza, thearrival of the Burke automobile. 

It was sunset time and beautiful beyond words. Something in the peacefulloveliness stirred Patricia--she wished that the day were dark and grim. It seemed incongruous to take to the down path--Patricia was not blindedby her lure--while the whole world was flooded with gold and azure. 

Then Patricia's angel had a word to say. 

"Who would care, anyway?" the girl questioned her upstanding angel--"inall the world, who would care? Why shouldn't I have--what I can get?"

And then, quite forcibly, Patricia thought of Joan! Joan seemed calling, calling. The thought brought a passionate yearning. Joan had the look inher eyes that children and dogs had when they regarded Patricia--a lookthat cut under the superficial disguise without seeing it, and clung towhat they knew was there! The something that they loved and trusted andplayed with. 

In a moment Patricia felt herself growing cold and hard as if almost, but not quite, a power outside herself had threatened the one and onlything in life that she held sacred. 

"That Look!" Full well Patricia knew that the Look would no longer behers to command if she held to her course!

Then, her strength rising with her determination, she glanced back overher cluttered trail. She had written a letter to Joan--it would bedelivered to-morrow. A black, scorching statement that would leave not atrace of beauty for the old friendship to rest upon. She had alsowritten a letter to the firm in Chicago definitely refusing to acceptits offer--but that letter was not yet mailed!

The Burke automobile, like a devastating flood, might at any moment teardown the hill to the left. With this fear growing in her a strangeperverted sense of justice rose and combated it. She had deliberatelyput herself in the way of the flood; she knew all about the risks offloods, and it seemed knavish to promise and then--leave the field. 

"Better an hour of raging against the absence of me, " she said, pitifully, "than years of regretting my presence. He'll hate me a littlesooner, that's all. So--good-bye!" Patricia almost ran inside; left ahasty, badly written note, and, metaphorically, scrambled over thedisordered path of retreat; she seemed to be racing against that letteron its way to Joan. She would write later to the man who was drawingnear. Only one thing did Patricia pause to do: It was like driving thelast nail in the old life. She telegraphed to Chicago, accepting theposition of designer!

CHAPTER XVIII

"_Ours, if we be strong. _"

Joan had sung herself into an exalted mood. She had floated along on thewings of music, touching happy memories and tender, nameless yearnings. Her loved ones seemed crowding about her--Doris, dear, sweet Nancy, andpretty Pat. They were pressing against her heart and calling to her. 

She began to feel a dull ache for them, a growing impulse stirred deepin her unawakened nature such as always drives the Prodigal unto hisFather! The superficial life of the past year seemed husks indeed. Itwas the beautiful music that mattered and that she could have had withher blessed, safe, loved ones. She need not have left them lonely; shehad been shamelessly selfish. Freedom! What was her freedom? Just atugging against the sweetest thing in life--the false against the true!

Joan felt the tears falling down her cheeks while she sang on--andsuddenly it was Patricia who seemed closest to her. 

"I will not desert Pat, " she actually sang the words into her songfiercely, resolutely. "Patricia must come into safety with me. "

With this vowed to her soul, Joan dried her tears and sprang to herfeet. She had never felt so lonely, so happy, so free as she did thatmoment when her spirit turned homeward again. 

She kicked off her sandals and began to dance about the studio, lightly, joyfully. 

The late afternoon was fading into a sudden darkness--a storm wascoming; black, copper-dashed clouds were rolling on rapidly, full ofnoise and electricity; in a short time they would break over thecity--but Joan danced on and on!

In that hour not one thought of Kenneth Raymond disturbed her. Hebelonged to the time of mistaken freedom; he was one who had helped herto think she could make unreal things true. He had no place here andnow. She somehow felt that he had passed from her life. 

Joan was abnormally young and only superficially old; her experienceshad but developed her spiritually--aroused her better self; and in thatself lay her womanhood, her knowledge of sex relations; there it restedunharmed, unheeding. 

And then came a knock on the door!

The whirling figure paused on the tips of its toes; the brooding facebroke into smiles. 

"It's Pat! Come!"

The word "come" was all that reached the waiting man outside--and whenhe entered he gathered to himself the glad, joyous welcome meant forPatricia, and smiled at the poised figure. 

"Why!" gasped Joan, and in her excitement almost spoke Raymond's name. 

"How--did you find your way here? How did you know?"

"Forgive me; I had to come. I telephoned to the Brier Bush--they gave meyour number. "

Raymond closed the door behind him and came to the centre of the bigroom, and there he stood smiling at Joan. 

"So your name is Sylvia?" he said. 

Then Joan understood--Elspeth had respected her wish to be unknownoutside her business, she had given Sylvia's name, had made Sylviaresponsible. 

"I tried to get you earlier by telephone. "

"I was not home. " Joan was thinking hard and fast. Something was verywrong, but she could not make out what it was. 

"Forgive me for breaking rules: I wanted to see you so that rules didnot seem to count. Go on with your dance. You look like the spirit oftwilight. Dance. Dance. "

Joan grew more and more perplexed. The anger she felt was less than thesense of unreality about it all. Raymond was a stranger; he repelledher; in a way, shocked her. 

"I'm through dancing, " she said. "Since you are here, sit down. I willturn on the lights. "

"Please don't. And you are angry. I'm awfully sorry, but it was thisway: I was having dinner with some friends and suddenly I seemed to hearyou calling to me. It gave me quite a shock. I thought you might be indanger, might be needing me. "

Joan kept her eyes on Raymond's face. She was trying to overcome thegrowing aversion which alarmed her. 

"No, I was not calling to you, " she said. "I was bidding yougood-bye--really, though I did not know it myself. "

"Oh! come now!" Raymond bent forward over his clasped hands; "you arepeeved! Not a bit like the little sport with that line in her hand. "

"I--I wish you wouldn't talk like that. " Joan frowned. "And I know itwill sound rude--but I--wish you would go. "

"You are--surly!" Raymond laughed again, and just then a deep, rumblingnote of thunder followed a vivid flash. 

"Come, " he went on; "dance for me. There's going to be a devil of astorm--keep time to it. I'm here--I ask pardon for being here--but youcan't turn me out in the storm. Come, let us have another big memory forour adventure. "

Still Joan sat contemplating the man near her, her hands lightly claspedon her lap, her slim feet crossed and at ease--little stocking-shod feetto which Raymond's eyes turned. She had never looked, to Raymond, soprovoking and tempting. 

"What's up, really?" he asked, "you're not going to spoil everything bya silly tantrum, are you?"

Joan hadn't the slightest appearance of temper--she was quite at ease, apparently, though her heart almost choked her by its beating. 

"You have spoiled everything, " she said, "not I. You somehow have madeour play end abruptly by coming here. I don't think I ever can playagain. It's like knowing there isn't--any--any Santa Claus; I can'texplain. But something has happened. Something so awful that I cannotput it into words. "

Raymond got up and stood before Joan. He looked down and smiled, and atthat moment she knew that he was not his old self and she knew what hadchanged him! And yet with the understanding a deeper emotion swept overher, one of familiarity. It was like finding someone she had known longago in Raymond's place; as if she had lived through this scene before. 

She summoned a latent power to deal with the new conditions. 

"You pretty little thing!" Raymond whispered, and touched Joan'sshoulder. She got up quickly and moved across the room. 

"I always want light when there is a storm, " she said, and touched theswitch. 

Raymond, in the glare, looked flushed and impatient. A crash of thundershook the old house. 

"Will you dance for me?" he said. 

Joan stiffened--she was dealing with the strange personality, not theman who was part of the happy past. 

"No, " she said, evenly. "And you have no right to be here. I wish youwould go at once. "

"Out in this storm, you little pagan?"

"You could go downstairs and wait in the hall. "

"You are afraid of me?"

"Not in the least. "

"Afraid of yourself, then?"

"Certainly not. Why should I be afraid of myself?"

"Afraid _for_ yourself, then?"

Raymond was enjoying himself hugely. 

"No, but I'm a bit afraid--for you!" Joan was watching the strangeracross the room, and she shivered as peal after peal of thunder tore thebrief lulls in the storm. 

"Oh! that's all right--about me!" Raymond said, mistaking the tremblingthat he saw; "you know, while I was at dinner to-day I got to thinkingwhat fools we were--not to--to take what fun there is in life--and notcount the costs like mean-spirited misers. You've got more dash andcourage than I have--you must have thought me, many a time, a---- Whatdid you think me, little girl?"

With the overpowering new knowledge that was possessing her Joan spokehesitatingly. It seemed pitifully futile and untruthful; but her ownthought was to get this stranger from her presence. 

"I thought you--well, I thought about you just as I thought aboutmyself. Someone who was strong enough and splendid enough to makesomething we both wanted come true! It was believing that we twogrown-up, lonely people could--play--without hurting--anything--or eachother. I see, now, just as I used to see when I was a little girl--thatone can never, never do that. "

Tears dimmed Joan's eyes and she tried to smile. 

The whole weird and unbelievable experience was making her distrustherself, and the storm was more and more unnerving her. She feared shecould not hold out much longer. 

"You're a--damned good little actress!" Raymond gave a hard, loud laughso unlike his own wholesome laugh that Joan started back. 

"I want you to go away at once!" her eyes flashed. "I think you must bemad. "

"But--the storm. " Raymond walked across the room. 

"I do not care--about the storm. I want you to go!" and now Joanretreated and unconsciously took her stand behind a chair. 

A sudden, blinding flash, a deafening crash and--the lights went out!

In the terrifying blackness Joan felt Raymond's arms about her. 

So frightened was she now that for an instant the human touch was ablessing. She relaxed, panting and trembling. In that moment she feltkisses upon her lips, her eyes, her throat!

She sprang away, dashing against the furniture and then, as suddenly asthey had failed, the lights were blazing and in the revealment Joanfaced the man across the room. 

Her face was flaming, but his was as white as if death had marked it. 

"You--coward!" she flung out. 

The words stung and hurt. 

Raymond did not move bodily, but his eyes seemed to be coming nearer thegirl. 

"If you do not go at once, " Joan said, slowly, "I will call for help. "

"Oh! no, you won't, and I am not going to-night. "

The beast in Raymond had never risen before, had never been suspected, never been trained: it was the more dangerous because of that. 

"What?" Joan stared at him aghast. 

"I said that I am not going to-night. "

The awful feeling of familiarity again swept over Joan. She felt thatshe must have lived through the scene: had made a mistake that must notbe made a second time. 

"You have been drinking, " she said, and her voice shook. She had hopedthat she might save him the degradation of knowing that she understood. 

"Well! Suppose I have? It has made me live. Set me free. I wonder if youhave ever lived?"

"I am afraid not. " Joan could not repress the sob that rose in herthroat. 

"We can live, I bet. " Raymond gave his ugly laugh. "That line in ourhands gives us the right. "

For a moment Joan contemplated escape. Any escape open to her. Thetelephone, the door, even a call from the window in the heart of thestorm. Then the desire was gone and with it all personal fear. Shewanted again, in a vague way, to save this man who had once been herfriend. She felt that she must save him. 

Somehow, she had wronged him. She must find out just how, and then hemight once more be as she had known him. 

Presently it came to her. She should have known that he could notunderstand the past. He had pretended to, while they had played theirfoolish game, but when restraint was set aside he showed the deadlytruth. She had cheapened herself, cheapened all women--she could not flynow, not until she had made him see the mistake. 

Raymond was crossing the room. He laughed, and insanity flashed in hiseyes. 

"What shall I call you from now on?" he said: "Sylvia?--or shall we makeup another name?"

"My name is not Sylvia. And there is to be no time ahead for us. "

"You are mistaken. A girl has no right to lead a man on as you have ledme, and then run. It isn't the game, my dear. You must not be afraid toplay the game. "

Raymond reached his hand toward her and said pleadingly:

"Don't be afraid. I hate to see you flinch. "

"You must not touch me. " Joan's eyes flashed. 

"I see. You've raised the devil in me--and you do not want to pay?" Thebrute was rearing dangerously. 

"I do not want to pay more than I owe. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that as true as God hears me I meant no wrong. I've done thingsthat girls should not do. I see that now. But I believed that youunderstood. I thought that, in a way, you were like me--you were so fineand happy. I still have faith that when you are yourself again you willrealize this. Oh! it is horrible that drink can do such an awful thingto you. "

"Whatever ideals I may have had, " Raymond broke in, "you have destroyed. Perhaps you think men have no ideals? Some women do. "

"Oh! I believe with all my soul that they have. It was because I didthink that, that I dared to trust you. " Joan was pleading; she could notown defeat; she was appealing to him for himself. 

But Raymond gave a sneering laugh. 

"You trusted so much, " he said, "that you hid behind a veil and wouldnot tell your name. "

Raymond was hearing himself speak as if he were an eavesdropper. Hetrembled and breathed hard as a runner does who is near the goal. 

"What's one night in a life?" he asked, as if it were being dragged fromhim. 

Again his voice startled him. He looked around, hoping he might discoverwho it was that spoke. 

It was Joan now who was speaking:

"I think that in me as well as in you there is something that neither ofus knew. I cannot explain it--but it was something that we should haveknown before----"

"Before what?" Raymond asked. 

"Before I--anyway--was left to go free! It is the _knowing_ that makesit safe, safe for such as you and me! I do not believe you ever knewwhat you could be--and neither did I. "

Raymond gripped his hands together and his face was ghastly. 

"My God!" he breathed, and sank on the couch covering his eyes fromJoan's pitiful look. He was coming to himself, trying to realize whathad occurred as one does who becomes conscious of having spoken indelirium. 

Outside, the storm was dying down--it sounded tired and defeated. 

Joan looked at the bent form near her and then went to a chair andleaned her head back. She knew the feeling of desperate exhaustion. Shehad never fainted, was not going to faint now, but she had come to theend of a dangerous stretch of road and there was no strength left inher. Surprise, shock, the storm--all had combined to bring her to whereshe was now. The tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks; all her hope andfaith were gone--she had left them in the struggle and could not evenestimate her loss. 

The clock ticked away the minutes--who was there to notice or care? Joanwas thankful to have nothing happen! She closed her eyes and waited. 

Presently Raymond spoke. His hands dropped from his haggard face and hiseyes were filled with shame and remorse. 

"Will you listen to me?" he said. 

"Yes. " Joan looked at him--her eyes widened; she tried to smile. Shelonged to cry out at what she saw, wanted to say: "You have come back. Come back. " Instead she said slowly:

"Yes. "

"I can never expect to have your forgiveness. I thank God that it ispossible for us to part and, alone, seek to forget this horror. I willnever intrude. I promise you that. Back in my college days I found outthat I could not drink. It did something to me that it does not do toothers. I never quite knew what until to-day. When I saw you standingthere--the devil got loose. I know now. My God! To think that all one'slife does not count when the devil takes hold. "

"Oh! Yes, it does, and it is the knowing that will help. " Joan wascrying softly. "You will have the right to trust yourself hereafterbecause you know. "

"I will always think of women as I see you now. " Raymond spokereverently. 

"You must not. Some women do not have to learn--I did. I think the bestwomen know. "

"You must not say that. "

"Yes, I feel it. Had I shown you a better self while we played all wouldhave been different. You would not have misunderstood. Women must notexpect what they are not willing to give. I had done things that no girlcan safely do and be understood and then--when you lost control--youthought of me as you really believed me. I can see it all now, see how Ihurt you; hurt myself and hurt other girls; but it was because--notbecause I am a bad girl--but because I did not know myself any more thanyou knew yourself. How could we hope to know each other? I seem so old, now--so old! And I understand--at last. "

Raymond looked at her and pity filled his eyes, for she looked sotouchingly young. 

"I think, " he said, "that I shall see all girls for ever as I see you atthis minute. "

"Oh, you must not. " Joan gave a sob. "They are not like me, really. "

There was an awkward silence. Then:

"Will you tell me your name? Will you try to trust me--just a little? Itwould prove it, if you only would. "

"I do not want you to know my name. You must promise to keep fromknowing. It is all I ask. "

"Will you let me tell you--mine?"

"No! no!" Joan put up her hands as if to ward off something tangible. 

"I only meant"--Raymond dropped his eyes--"that there isn't anythingunder heaven I wouldn't do to prove to you my sense of remorse. Ithought if you knew you might call upon me some day to prove myself. I'mbungling, I know, but I wish I could make you understand how I feel. "

"I do. " And now Joan got up rather unsteadily. "And some day--I--I maycall upon you--for--for I have known your name--always!"

"What!"

"Please--forgive me. I was taking an advantage--but it did not seem tomatter then, and I must keep the advantage now--for your sake as well asmine. And now, before we say good-bye, I want to tell you that I knowyou are going to have your ideals again. You will try to get them back, won't you?"

"I will get them back, yes! I only lost them when the devil in me droveme mad. "

"And bye and bye, try to believe that although one cannot make theunreal real, still there are some foolish people that think theycan--and be kind to such people. Help them, do not hurt them. "

"Will you--take my hand?" Raymond stretched his own forth. 

"Why--of course--and tell you that I am glad, oh, so glad because--youhave come back! Glad because it was I not another who saw that otheryou--for I can forget it!"

"And--and we are--to see each other some day?" This came hopefully. "Some day--as we left ourselves--back before this?"

"Some day--some day? Perhaps. If we do--we will understand better thanwe did then. "

"Yes. We'll understand some things. "

Raymond bent and touched Joan's hand with his lips and went quickly fromthe room. 

He was conscious of passing, on the stairs, a wet and draggled youngwoman, but he did not pause to see the frightened look she cast uponhim. 

A moment later Joan raised her head from the pillow on which she wasweeping the weakest--and the strongest--tears of her life. 

"Oh! Pat, " she sobbed. "Oh! Pat. "

Patricia came to the couch and sat down. She was thinking fast and hard. Life had not been make-believe to Patricia; she had builded whatevertowers had been hers with hard facts. 

She drew wrong and bitter conclusions now--but she dealt with themdivinely. 

"You poor kid, " she whispered, "and I left you--to this. I! Joan, I toldyou not to trust men. It's when you trust them that you get hurt. 

"Listen, you poor little lamb, I felt you calling me, tugging at me. Thestorm delayed me, or I would have been here sooner. Joan, I had nearlyrun off the track myself--it was the thought of you that got me. I keptremembering that night you made the little dinner for me--no one hadever taken care of me like that--and, child, I've accepted that job inChicago. If I go alone, remembering that dinner you got for me, I don'tknow what I'll do. Come with me, Joan, will you? No man in the world isworth such tears as these. You don't have to tell _me_ anything. We'llbegin anew. You'll have your music--I'll have my work--and we'll have adinner every night. "

Patricia was shivering in her wet clothing. 

Joan put her arms about her. At that moment nothing so much appealed toher as to get away--get away to think and make sure of herself. Get awayfrom the place where her idols lay shattered. 

"Yes, Pat. I will go. But"--and here she took Patricia's face in her hotpalms--"don't you believe that any man can be trusted?"

"No, I don't. It isn't their fault. They are not made for trust--they'remade to do things. "

"Pat, you're all wrong. It's girls like you and me that cannot betrusted. I--I didn't know myself that was the trouble. Pat--youmustn't--think what you are thinking--you are mistaken. "

"I saw him--on the stairs, " gasped Patricia. 

"Suppose you did?"

"Joan, do you know what time it is?"

"No. I do not care. It takes time to have the world tumble about yourears. "

"You--you--do not--love him, do you?"

Joan paused and considered this as if it were a startlingly new idea. 

"Love him?--why, no. I'm sure I don't. But, Pat, what is it that seemslike love, but isn't--you're sure it isn't--but it hurts and almostkills you?"

The two young faces confronted each other blankly. 

"I don't know, " Patricia said. 

"Nor I, Pat. But we've got to know. All women have unless they want tomess their own lives and the lives of men. They cannot be free untilthey do. "

Then Joan took hold of Patricia and exclaimed:

"Pat, you are dripping wet. Come to bed. " While helping Patricia toundress she talked excitedly of going away. 

"It's the only thing to do. This silly life is a waste of time. Why, Pat, we have been making all kinds of locks to keep ourselves shut awayfrom freedom and the things we want. Some day we would want to get outand we could not. I am going to be free, Pat--not smudgy. "

Patricia paused in the act of getting into bed and remarked demurely:

"My God! Out of the mouths of babes and pet lambs---- Come, child, shutyour eyes. You make me crawl. "

CHAPTER XIX

"_Queer--to think no day is like to a day that is past. _"

When Joan and Patricia arose the following day they confronted life astwo criminals might who realized that their only safety lay in flight, and that they must escape without running risks. 

Patricia shuddered when the first mail was delivered. She rescued herown letter--addressed to Joan--and raised her heart in gratitude that noletter of angered remonstrance came from Burke. 

But he might _come_; he might telegraph!

"My God!" Patricia exclaimed at noon time, "I cannot stand this, Joan, we must vacate. "

Joan was quivering with excitement, too--she was wild-eyed and shookwith terror at every step on the stairs. 

Her ordeal of the day before had not merely devastated her beautifuldreams, but it had, in a marvellous fashion, created an entirely newoutlook on life. She felt that once she was safe from any possiblechance of meeting Raymond, he might, spiritually, rise from the ashesand eventually overcome the impression that would cling in spite of allshe could do. Intellectually she understood--but her hurt and shockedsensibilities shrank from bodily contact with one who had forced thefruit of knowledge so crudely upon her. The youth in her seemed to havedied, and it held all the charm and delight. The _woman_ of Joan made aplea for the man, but as yet he was a stranger. More strange, even, thanthe unnamable creature who had, for an hour, while the storm raged, stood in her imagination like some evil thing between the woman who hadnot fully understood and the woman who was never again tomisunderstand. 

While she feared and trembled Joan could, already, recall the momentwhen Raymond began to gain the victory over his fallen self. She knewthat he was always to be the master in the future. How she knew this shecould not have explained, but she knew! In all the years to come Raymondwould be the better for that hour that proved to him his weakness. Andwith this knowledge, poor Joan found comfort in her own part. He and shehad learned together the strength of their hidden foes. She realizedwith a sense of hot remorse that she had wanted freedom not so much forthe opportunity of expressing that which was fine and worth while, butthat which she, herself, had not been conscious of. 

But she had been awakened in time. She, like Raymond, had faced herworst self, and now the most desirable thing to do was to get away. Anywhere, separated from all that had led to the shock, she would lookback and forward and know herself well enough to make the next step asafer one. 

To go with Patricia for a few months would not interfere with her winterplans; so she decided not to write fully to Doris, but to state merelythat she was going to see Patricia settled in her new venture--or, should the business not appeal, bring Patricia back with her. 

"But, " she said to Patricia while they restlessly moved about thestudio, "what can we do about--this, " Joan spread her arms wide, "thefurniture and all Syl's beloved things?"

Patricia sighed. 

"Has it ever struck you, my lamb, " she said, "that our dear Syl is aselfish pig?"

Joan started in surprise. 

"Oh, I know, " Patricia went on, "her respectability and genius protecther, but she is selfish. How long did she stop to consider us when herown plans loomed high? She dumped everything on us and went! It wasbusiness, pleasure, art, and John. For the rest--'poof!'" Patricia spokethe last sound like a knife cutting through something crisp and hard. 

Joan continued to stare. Unformed impressions were taking shape--shefelt disloyal, but she was not deceived. 

"Syl brought you here, " Patricia was going on, "because she was lonelyand you fitted in; she never changed her own course. She has engagedherself to her John because _he_ fits in and will never interfere. I'veseen him--and I grieve over him. He'll think, bye and bye, that he'sgone into partnership with God in giving Syl and her art to the world!But he'll never have any nice little fire to warm the empty corners ofhis life by. I hope he'll never discover them--poor chap! He's as goodas gold and Syl has pulled it all over him without knowing it. She'smade him believe that he was specially designed to further a goodcause--she is the good cause. 

"And the best, or the worst, of it is that Syl will make good. That kinddoes. It is such fools as you and I who fail because we have imaginationand find ourselves at the crucial moment in the other fellow's shoes. "

"Oh, Pat!" It was all that Joan could think of saying. 

Patricia was rushing on. 

"Very well, then! Now, listen, lamb, you and I are going to skip andskip at once. I'm done up. A change is all that will save me--and you'vegot to go with me!"

"Yes, yes, Pat!"

"Why, child, a step on the stairs is giving us electric shocks. Thislease is up in October. I'll telegraph Syl to-day. She can make her ownarrangements after that--we'll leave things safe here and get outto-morrow!"

Suddenly Joan got up and threw her hands over her head. 

"Thank heaven!" was what she cried aloud. 

There was much rush and flurry after that, and in the excitement thenervous tension relaxed. 

A note, a most bewildering one, was posted to Elspeth Gordon. It came ata moment when Miss Gordon greatly needed Joan and was most annoyed ather non-appearance. It simply stated:

 Something has happened--I'm going at once to Chicago with Pat. 

Now as Patricia had been an unknown quantity to Miss Gordon--herrelations with Joan being purely those of business--she raised her browswith all the inherited conservatism of her churchly ancestors andsteeled her heart--as they often had. 

"Temperamental!" sniffed Miss Gordon, "utterly lacking in honour. Justas I might have expected. A poor prospect for--Pat! I do not envy thegentleman. "

Miss Gordon had contempt instead of passion, but her resentment was nonethe less. 

And it was at high tide when Raymond came in at four-thirty for a cup oftea and what comfort he could obtain by seeing how Joan had survived thestorm. He was met by blank absence and a secret and unchristian desireon Miss Gordon's part to hurt Joan. 

Miss Gordon had not been entirely unobservant of all that had been goingon. She had had her qualms, but business must be business, and so longas Joan did not interfere with that she had not felt called upon toremonstrate with her on her growing friendliness with the prot�g� ofMrs. Tweksbury. 

But now things were changed and by Joan's own bad behaviour. 

Raymond looked sadly in need of tea and every other comfortavailable--he was positively haggard. 

While he sipped his tea he was watching, watching. So was Miss Gordon. Finally, he could stand it no longer and he spoke to her as she waspassing. 

"Your little sibyl--she is not here? On a vacation, I suppose?"

This was futile and cheap and Raymond felt that he flushed. 

Miss Gordon poised for action. Her face grew grave and hard--shebelieved she was quite within her just rights when she sought to protectthis very handsome and worth-while young man. She really should havedone it before! She was convinced of that now. 

"My assistant, " she said, "has left without giving the usual notice. Shehas left me in a most embarrassing position but I suppose she felt herown personal affairs were paramount. 

"I--I think she has made a hasty marriage. " On the whole, this seemedmore kind than Joan deserved. 

"A--what?" Raymond almost forgot himself. "A--what--did you say?"

"Well, I presume it was marriage. She simply stated that something hadoccurred that was taking her to Chicago at once with a young man. "

Elspeth Gordon watched the face of Mrs. Tweksbury's adopted son. Shefelt she was serving a righteous cause. If any worthy young man came toharm from the folly she had permitted she could never forgive herself!Miss Gordon had an elastic conscience. 

Raymond's countenance grew suddenly blank. He had recovered hisself-control. He laughed presently--it was a light, well-modulatedlaugh, not the laugh of a shocked or very much interested man. 

Miss Gordon was relieved--but disappointed. 

And then Raymond went out to do his thinking alone. He walked thestreets as people often do who are lonely and can find relief in action. 

He had never been so confused in his life, but then, he reflected, whatdid he really know about the girl with whom he had spent so many happy, sweet, unforgettable hours? The one black hour through which she had, somehow, stood as the only tangible safe thing he could recall, hadshattered his faith in himself, in everything. 

What was she? Who was she? And now she had gone--with some man! Itsounded cruel and harsh--but it could not, it never could, blot outcertain memories which lay deep in Raymond's mind. He was miserablebeyond words. He deplored his own part in the unhappy affair; he couldnot adjust himself to the inevitable--the end of the amazing andromantic episode. 

Of course he had always known that it must end some time, but while hedrifted damnably he had not given much thought to that. But now he hadfinished it by his own beastiality when, had he kept his head, it mighthave passed as it came--a thing undefiled; a beautiful, tender memory. 

Perhaps--and at this Raymond shuddered--perhaps he had driven the girlupon a reef. He had heard of such things. In despair she had violentlytaken herself out of his reach. He could not believe she had beenseriously involved while she played with him. Whatever she was, he couldbut believe that she was innocent in her regard for him--else why thismad flight? And he could not believe that her regard for him wasserious. He was humble enough. 

After leaving Joan the night before Raymond had met his Other Selfsquarely in the shrouded house. Toward morning he had come to aconclusion: he was prepared to pay to the uttermost for his folly, whatever the demand might be. She must be the judge. 

He would go to the tea room--not to the house that he had so brutallyinvaded. He would again talk to the girl and watch her--he would makeher understand that he was not as weak as he might seem. If he hadmisunderstood, that should not exempt him from responsibility. But ifshe should spurn any attempt of his to remedy the evil he could regardhimself with a comparatively clean conscience. 

Raymond could not get away from the idea that the girl was of hisworld--the world where he was supposed, by Mrs. Tweksbury and her kind, to constantly be. 

But then the empty tea room--and how empty it was!--stared him blanklyin the face. Miss Gordon's manner angered him beyond expression. Almosthe felt he must tell her of his own low part in the tragedy in order toplace her beside the girl he had insulted, instead of beside him, as hefelt she was. 

Raymond was hurt, disappointed, and disgusted; but as the day wore on agrave and common-sense wave of relief flooded his consciousness. Bad asthings had been, they might, God knows, have been worse. As it was, withthe best of intentions, he was set aside by the girl's own conduct ofher affairs. 

To seek her further would be the greatest of folly and then, towardnight, lonely, half ill, Raymond undertook that time-honoured custom ofturning over a new leaf only to find that it stuck to the oldpersistently!

Then he resorted to a sensible alternative--he read and re-read the oldpage. He tried to understand it line by line. He was humbled; filledwith shame at his meaningless attitude of the past, and acknowledgedthat the grit in him, that he had hoped was sand, was, after all, thedirt that could easily defile. He must begin anew and rebuild. He musttake nothing for granted in himself. Having arrived at that conclusion, the leaf turned!

And Joan, in like manner, thrashed about. It was not so much her actionsthat caused her alarm--she had played most sincerely--but it was thepower behind the play that caused her to tremble and grow hot and cold. What was it within her that had driven her where wiser girls would fearto stray? What was it that was not love in the least and yet had causedher heart to beat at Raymond's touch or glance? Whatever it was, Joanconcluded, it could not be depended upon. It could lay waste every holyspot unless it were understood and controlled, and Joan set herself tothe task. 

The first step was to get away. That was inevitable. 

After a few months--and Joan was sure Patricia could not run in harnesslonger than that--they could both come back, saner and better women. Then Doris would be called into action; no more butting against thepricks and calling it freedom!

In the meantime, Patricia and Joan worked madly to get away and stillsecure Sylvia's interests. 

Telegrams passed to and fro. Sylvia was fair enough to see both sides, and while she was irritated at being disturbed she did not resent it andeven bade Patricia and Joan success with honest enthusiasm. 

"I'll run back and see to things, " she wrote; "I'm making a lot ofmoney. "

And then Patricia tucked Joan, so to speak, under her frail wing andtook to flight. 

Chicago was new territory to both the girls but Patricia, from thenecessity, as she told Joan, of grubbing, had become an adept at findingshelter. 

After a week at a hotel, while she settled herself in business, Patriciahad free hours for home-hunting, and she and Joan made a lark of it. 

Patricia had the enviable power of shutting business from her own time, and she quickly discerned that Joan needed prompt and definite intereststo hold her to what they had undertaken. 

And the venture had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions to Patricia. She feverishly desired it to be a success. 

She realized that Joan was being torn by conflicting emotions while shewas idle and alone. She asked no questions; appeared not to noticeJoan's teary eyes and pensive mouth. Wisely she made Joan feel her ownneed of her--to that Joan responded at once. 

"Joan, I never had a home in my life before, " she confided while theyflitted from one apartment to another. "I used to walk around in strangecities and peep in people's windows, just to see homes!

"After my father died, I rustled about on the little money he left, andI got to sneaking into other women's homes. I didn't mean harm at first, but after awhile it seemed so easy to sneak and so hard to--make good!But down in my heart, as truly as God hears me, I've been homesickfor--what I never had. "

"Pat! Of all things--you are crying!" Joan looked frightened. 

"Well, let me cry!" sniveled Patricia. "I've never given myself thatluxury, either. "

For a moment there was silence broken only by Patricia's sniffs. Then:

"What do your folks say about it, Joan?"

"I haven't sent the big letter yet--it's written. I don't want them tosay anything until I'm fixed. I only told them of our leaving New York. "

"Whew!" ejaculated Patricia. "You certainly run your careerfree-handed. "

"Aunt Dorrie will take it like the darling she is, " Joan mused on, "andshe'll make Nan and Doctor Martin see it. When she gave me my chance shedid not tie a string to me--not even the string of her love. Weunderstand each other perfectly. "

"I suppose you know, " Patricia gave a sigh, "but I don't think anexplanation would hurt any and I don't want her to blame me more than Ideserve, Joan. "

"Blame you, Pat? Why, how could she?"

"Oh, I don't know. She might get to thinking on her own hook if youdon't give her the facts. Joan, send the letter at once!"

So Joan dispatched the letter, and it had the effect of depressing Nancyto an alarming degree and, in consequence, of spurring Doris to renewedeffort. 

She was perturbed by the lack of what she knew. She had her doubts ofPatricia; the sudden flight had an aspect of rout--what did it mean?

Her reply to Joan, however, was much what Martin's would have been tohis nephew. 

She accepted and took on faith what Joan had explained--or failed toexplain. 

She laid emphasis on plans for the coming winter and referred to Joan'spromise to give herself seriously to her music. 

"Either in New York or there, my dear, begin your real work. It is allwell enough to look about before you decide, but there is a time fordecision. "

This letter put Joan on her mettle. 

"Pat, I'm going to begin as soon as we've settled, " she declared, andher wet eyes shone. "Aunt Dorrie is quite right. "

The girls finally secured four pretty, sunny rooms overlooking the lake, and reverently selected the furniture for them. 

"Let's get things artistic, " Patricia wisely explained, "we'll make theplace unique and then"--for Patricia always left, if possible, a wayopen for retreat--"if we should ever want to dispose of it, we'd have agood market. "

But as the days passed it looked as if the venture were turning outbetter than one could have hoped. Joan had never felt so important inher life, and, to her surprise, developed possibilities never suspectedbefore. She prepared for Patricia's homecomings with the keenestdelight. The cozy, charming little dinners, the evenings by the openfire--for they had selected the rooms largely on account of thefireplace--or the occasional theatre or concert grew in delight. Patricia was the merriest of comrades, the most appreciative ofpartners. She also, to her own surprise, became deeply interested in herwork and, while the hours and confinement sometimes irritated her, herfield of invention was wide enough to employ her real talent, and hersuccess was assured from the first. 

And when things were running smoothly and there were hours too empty forcomfort in the lonely day, Joan discovered a professor of music who gaveher much encouragement and some good advice. 

After this interview she wrote to Doris more frankly than she had donefor a long time. She explained her financial situation and quite simplyasked for help:

 It's very expensive learning _not_ to be a fool, Aunt Doris. I have proved that. I am very serious now and Chicago, with Pat, is better for me than New York with Sylvia. 

 What I really want is to prove myself a bit before I come back to you. I'm sorry about this winter, dear, but a year more and I will be able to come to you not _on_ my shield, I hope, but with it in fairly good condition. 

"I think you ought to make her keep her promise about this winter, "Nancy quivered; "she is always upsetting things. "

"Why, my little Nan!" Doris drew the girl to her. Oddly enough, she feltas if Nancy was all that she was ever to have. Never before had Joansounded so determined. 

"Instead, " Doris comforted, "I am going to help Joan prove herself andyou and I, little girl, will go up to town and have a very happy, a verywonderful winter, and next summer, if Joan does not come to us, we willgo to her. I think we all see things very clearly now. "

Nancy was not so sure of this but she, like Joan and Patricia, had feltthe lash upon her back and was chafing at delay. 

Mary worked early and late to hasten the departure from The Gap. Alwaysin Mary's consciousness was that threatening old woman on Thunder Peak. 

With care and comfort old Becky was more alert; more suspicious. She waswondering _why_. And Mary felt that at any time she might defeat whatdaily was gaining a hold on Mary's suspicions. The woman tried hard toshield the secret from her own curiosity, but under all else lay theconviction that it was Nancy's toys which were in peril. And graduallythe love that the silent, morose woman felt for the girl absorbed allother emotions. It was like having banked everything on a desired hopeshe was prepared to defend it. If her suspicions were true, then all themore must the secret be hid. 

And so in November Doris and Nancy went to New York and Mary, apparentlyunmoved, saw them depart while she counted anew her assumed duties. 

There was The Peak--and with winter to complicate her duties, it loomedominously. 

"And I'll have to back letters for old Jed. " Mary had promised to writefor the old man and to read from the Bible to him, as Nancy had alwaysdone. "And keep the old man alive as well. " Mary sighed wearily. "Andwhen there's a minute to rest--keep my own place decent. " The cabin wasthe one bright thought and, because of that which had made the cabinpossible, Mary bowed her back to her burdens. 

"A strange woman is Mary, " Doris confided to Nancy; "nothing seems tomake any impression upon her. "

Nancy opened her lovely blue eyes wide at this. 

"Why, Aunt Dorrie, " she replied, "Mary would die for us--and nevermention it. She's made that still, faithful way. "

Doris smiled, but did not change her mind. The people of the hills werenever to be to her what they had been to Sister Angela--her people. 

CHAPTER XX

"_It Is Felicity on Her Wings. _"

The old New York house was once more opened and the fountain set free. Birds sang and flowers bloomed, but Joan was not there and for a blankbut silent moment both Doris and Nancy wondered if the lack were todefeat them. The moment was appalling but it passed. 

Felicity brooded over them and her wings did not droop. 

Martin, with his sound common sense, came to the fore among the first. He was never more alert. His nephew, Clive Cameron, was entrenched inMartin's office and home--his name, alone, shone on the new sign. 

"I've flung you in neck and crop, Bud, because I believe in you and havetold my patients so. Sink or swim, but you've got clear water to do itin. I'll hang around--make my city headquarters with you; lend myself toyou; but for the rest I'm going to do exactly what I want to do--for atime. "

Cameron regarded his uncle as the young often do the older--yearningly, covetously, tenderly. 

"I--I think I understand about Miss Fletcher, Uncle Dave, " he said. 

"I had hoped you did, boy. And remember this--it's only when a womangets so into your system that she cannot be purged out, that you dare tobe sure. "

"But, Uncle Dave, the knowledge--what has it done for you?"

"You'll never be able to understand that, Bud, until you're past the ageof asking the question. "

And having settled that to his satisfaction, Martin turned resolutely towhat threatened Doris and Nancy. 

He meant to see fair play. Doris could be depended upon for a fewstrenuous months if her friends turned to and helped her as they should. 

Nancy must no longer be sacrificed!

"If there is any sense in this tomfoolery about Joan, " Martin mused, "itmust apply to Nancy also. "

Martin was extremely fond of Nancy. He often wished she would not leanso heavily, but then his spiritual ideal of a woman was after Nancy'sdesign. Of Joan he disapproved, and Doris was a type apart. 

"If we can marry Nancy off, " plotted Martin--and he had his mind's eyeon his nephew--"I'll bring Sister on from the West and get Doris toshare Ridge House with us. Queer combination, but safe!"

And then he saw, as in a vision, the peaceful years on ahead. He wouldhold Doris's hand down the westering way. Hold it close and warm; neverlooking for more than the blessed companionship. And his sister, happyand content, would share the way with them and Nancy's children--wouldthey be Clive's also?--would gladden all their hearts. And Joan?--well, Martin did not feel that Joan needed his architectural aid--she waschopping and hacking her own design. 

At this point Martin sought Emily Tweksbury and bullied her into action. 

Mrs. Tweksbury had not unpacked her trunks yet and was sorely depressedabout Raymond. 

"I wish I had stuck to Maine, " she deplored, "and devoted myself to theboy. He looks like a fallen angel. 

"Ken, what have you been doing to yourself?" she had asked. 

"Just pegging away, Aunt Emily. "

"Ken, " Mrs. Tweksbury had an awful habit of felling the obvious by ablow of her common-sense hatchet; "Ken, you've got to be married. You'renot the kind to float around town and enjoy it--and you are the kindthat would enjoy the other. "

"Oh! I'm having a bully time, Aunt Emily. "

"That's not true, Ken. Life lacks salt; you look the need of it and Iblame myself for going abroad. "

"I'm glad you went!" fervently said Raymond. 

"You are, eh? Well, I'm not going again until you're safely married. "

At this Raymond found that he could laugh, and just then the hatchetfell, for Doctor Martin had entered the arena and Mrs. Tweksbury hadagreed to help. 

"Do you remember my speaking of that niece of Miss Fletcher's lastspring?" she asked. 

"Yes. I do recall it. Wasn't she to come here--or something like that?"

"Yes, she was, but she isn't. Doris Fletcher has brought her girl up totown herself and the old house is opened. I called there the other day. Ken, that girl is the loveliest thing I ever saw!"

"Is she?" Raymond was sitting on the edge of the table in Mrs. Tweksbury's dressing room. When she got through talking he was going tobed. He had to stifle a yawn. 

"Yes, she is. She's not only the prettiest girl I've seen for many ayear, but she's _the girl_. "

"For what?" Raymond swung his lifted foot while he balanced with theother. 

"For you, Ken!" The crash unsettled Raymond and he brought his free footto the floor. 

"Oh! come, " he blurted; "don't begin that sort of rubbish, Aunt Emily. Ithought you were above that. "

"I'm not, Ken. I would go slow if I dared, but this girl will be snappedup before we get in touch with her, unless we act quick. "

"Aunt Emily! For heaven's sake, is the girl hanging about open-mouthedfor the first hook tossed to her?"

"No. But, Ken, she is the kind that men want--the kind they hold sacredin their souls and hardly dare hope ever to see in the flesh. The girlmade me want to grab her. I remember as a child she was charming--she'sa perfect, but very human, woman now. "

With this Mrs. Tweksbury dilated upon what Doris had confided of Nancy'sloyal and devoted life. 

"You see, Ken, " Mrs. Tweksbury ran on, "the girl is like a rare thingthat you cannot debate much about, and once lost, the opportunity willnever come again. I've gone off about her, Ken. "

"I should say you had! Will you smoke, Aunt Emily?"

"Yes!"

To see Emily Tweksbury smoke was about as incongruous as to see anantique remodelled to bring it up to date; but the smoke calmed her. 

"You will call with me upon her, won't you, Ken?"

"With pleasure. "

Raymond felt that any compromise would be well to offer. 

"I'll do my best by her, too, Aunt Emily. I rather shy at perfect types;girls, at the best, make me skittish. They make me think of myself andthen I get gawky. "

"You'll forget yourself when you see Nancy Thornton. "

"Nancy--queer old name for a modern girl!" The two puffed away like oldcronies--Raymond had got into a chair now and Mrs. Tweksbury hadrelaxed, also. 

"She isn't modern!"

"No? What then, Aunt Emily?"

"Ken, she's just woman. She appears just once so often, like a prophetor something, that keeps your faith alive. She's the kind that the Biblecalls 'blessed, ' and if she didn't reappear now and then I think therace would perish. "

"Ugh!" grunted Raymond. Then added: "Calm down, Aunt Emily, go slow. When you lose your head you're apt to buck. "

Mrs. Tweksbury laughed at this and helped herself to another cigarette. 

It was a week later that Raymond met Nancy at his aunt's dinner table. He knew she was coming. At least he thought he knew--but when he saw herhe felt that he had not expected her at all. 

It was a small party: Doris Fletcher, Doctor Martin, young DoctorCameron, and Nancy. 

Nancy came into the dim old drawing room behind young Cameron. It wasthat fact that attracted Raymond first. He recalled what Mrs. Tweksburyhad said about the type being the ideal of man--or something likethat--and Cameron, whom he had just met a few weeks before, hadapparently got into action. 

After Nancy came Doctor Martin--it was as if the male element surroundedthe girl. 

She was rather breath-taking and radiant. She wore a coral-pink satingown, very short and narrow. Her pretty feet were shod in pink stockingsand satin slippers. Her dainty arms and neck were white and smooth, andher glorious fair hair was held in place by a string of coral beads. 

There are a good many platitudes that are really staggering facts. 

"Caught on the rebound, " is one. 

Raymond was more open to certain emotions than he had ever been in hislife. He was sore and bruised; he had lost several beliefs inhimself--and was completely ignorant of the big thing that had given himnew strength. 

He had had the vision of passion through the wrong lens; he had beenblinded by the close range, but he _knew_ what the vision was. In thathe had the advantage of poor Joan. 

His youth cried out for Youth; he wanted what he had all but lost theright to have. But he in no sense just then wanted Nancy; it was whatshe represented. She was what Mrs. Tweksbury had said, the kind of girlthat men enshrine in their souls and never replace even when they gladlyaccept a substitute. 

"If only----" and then Raymond's eyes looked queer. He was living overthe black hour which he did not realize was the hour of his soul'sbirth. He'd never have that battle again, he inwardly swore, but thatwas poor comfort. 

And then, while talking to Nancy, he grew very gay and light-hearted, like someone who had made a safe passage past the siren's rocks. Notthat it mattered, except that one did not want to be shipwrecked. Ofcourse, Raymond knew, he wouldn't forget while he lived, the otherthing just past, but it had not wrecked him. 

After that dinner nothing would have happened if all sorts of pressurehad not been brought to bear. Raymond was affectionately inclined to bekind to Mrs. Tweksbury because he knew he had wronged her faith in him, though she would never know; so he accompanied her whenever shebeckoned, and she beckoned frequently and always toward Nancy. 

Then Clive Cameron happened, at the crucial moment, to be on the middleof the stage for the same reasons that Raymond was there. Cameronfollowed Martin's vigorous beckoning, although he was bored to thelimit. He liked Nancy and thought her very beautiful, but Cameron hadnot enshrined any type of woman--a few men are like that. He knew, because he was young and vital and sane, that he had a shrine, orpedestal, in his make-up and if, at any time, he saw a girl that madehim forget, for a moment, the profession that was absorbing him justthen, he'd humbly implore her to fill the empty niche and after that hewould do the glorifying. But if it pleased his uncle to trot him about, he went with charming grace; and because it did not affect him in theleast, he played almost boisterously with Nancy and made her jollierthan she had ever been in her life. 

He made her forget things! Forget The Gap!

Cameron simply knocked unpleasant memories into limbo; he was like afresh northwest wind--he revived everyone. He made Doris think of DavidMartin as she first knew him--and naturally Doris adored Cameron. Shecame near praying that Nancy might, after a fashion, pay her debts forher. But no! she would not influence Nancy--she must be respected in herbeautiful freedom as Joan was in hers. 

So Doris widened the field of Nancy's vision, and old friends camehappily to the front. 

It is not wholly ignoble, the marriage market. To understand the game oflife is to be prepared, and women like Doris Fletcher were not entirelyself-seeking when they presented their best to what they believed shouldbe the best. Nancy was worthy, as Martin often said, to carry on thetruest American tradition of womanhood, so it became a reverent concernto help this matter personally, and nationally, on its course. 

Young men swarmed about Nancy because, as Mrs. Tweksbury truly said, the_ideal_ was in their hearts and they were stirred by it. 

And Nancy was radiant and lovely. She blossomed and throbbed--she washappy and appreciative. She was charming to everyone, but ran to Cameronfor safety and kept her sweet eyes on Raymond. 

So secretly did she do this that no one but Cameron suspected it. Theperfectly serene atmosphere that surrounded him and Nancy permitted himto understand the state of affairs. 

When a girl uses a man as a buffer between her and others he does notconfuse things. 

For a short time Cameron debated as to which particular man Nancy wantedhim to save her for while he was preserving her from the mass. It didnot take him long to decide. He grinned at the truth when it struck him. He was surprised, as men usually are, at a woman's choice of males. Cameron liked Raymond; thought him a good sort, but herd-bound. 

"But Nancy's got the brand mark, too, " he reflected. "They're bothheaded in the same direction, only Raymond doesn't know it--a womanalways finds things out first, and it's up to me, I guess, to lassoRaymond for her. "

So Cameron took up the "big brother" burden and steered the unsuspectingRaymond to his fate. 

Cameron did this in a masterly way. He blinded everyone except Nancy. 

Doris sighed with content, and Martin lifted his eyes in praise andgratitude. Mrs. Tweksbury, like a war-horse smelling powder, saw dangerto her plans and quickened Raymond to what was going on. 

At first Raymond was relieved--he wished Cameron good luck. Having donethat, he began to wonder if he really did?

There was something unutterably sweet about Nancy: she was so purelythe kind of woman that made life a success. Why should he play straightinto Cameron's hand? If Nancy really preferred Cameron, why, then--butdid she?

This was interesting. He took to watching; presently he concluded thatCameron was a conceited ass. 

After a short time Raymond began to feel the pressure of Nancy's littlebody in his arms--when their dance was over. He began to resent otherarms about her. Her eyes were lovely--so blue and sympathetic. She neverset a man guessing. Raymond had had enough of guessing!

About that time Mrs. Tweksbury added an urge to her heart's desire thatshe little suspected. 

"Ken, " she remarked one morning, "I dropped into the Brier Tea Roomyesterday. " It was the _brier_ that signified the meaning of the placeto the old lady. 

"Do you remember?"

Raymond nodded. Did he _not_ remember!

"The place is quite ordinary now--but the food is still superior. MissGordon has come to her senses. "

"Has she?" Raymond asked, lamely. 

"Yes. And that girl--do you remember her, Ken?"

Raymond nodded again. 

"Just as one might expect, " Mrs. Tweksbury rattled on, keeping to herone-tracked idea of things, "the minx ran off with a man, neverconsidering Miss Gordon at all. "

"I doubt if Miss Gordon could see any one's side but her own, " venturedRaymond. 

"Ken, that's unjust. The girl was a little fraud, and I think MissGordon is heartily ashamed of herself for having resorted to such cheapmethods to get trade. She has young Scotch girls helping her now. Nomore tricks, says Miss Gordon. "

There was a pause. 

"I thought for a time, Ken, that that girl was one of our kind--riskingfar too much. I'm not usually mistaken in blood, but--the creature was agood counterfeit; I'm glad she's gone. Say what you will, we older womenknow the young man needs protection as well as the young women. "

"Oh! Aunt Emily, cut it out!"

Raymond got up and stalked about. This added to Mrs. Tweksbury'suneasiness. 

For days after that talk Raymond had his uncomfortable hours. He wishedhe knew about the girl of the tea room. It was "the girl" now. If shewere only unscathed the future would be safer for everyone. 

But how could he--Raymond was getting into the meshes--how could he runto safety and happiness and forget, if he had really harmed, in any way, a girl who might have cared? The difference between playing with fireand being burned by fire was clear now. 

Had that hour, when the beast in him rampaged, killed forever the idealshe had had? Was she saved by his madness? Or had she been driven on therocks? If he only knew!

Raymond still had moments when he believed that the girl wouldmaterialize in his own safeguarded world. He had seen a resemblance nowand then that turned him cold, but when all was said and done there wasno reason, no unforgivable reason, for him to exile himself from life. 

And when he was in this state of mind, Cameron was like vinegar on a rawwound to him. Cameron's joyousness, born of indifference, passed forassurance based, as Raymond believed, on his asinine conceit. 

"He takes Nancy for granted, " Raymond grumbled, "and he need not be toosure--why, only last night----"

Then Raymond recalled the look in Nancy's eyes. 

As a matter of fact, while Raymond was no better nor worse than theaverage young man visiting the marriage market, Nancy had selected himfor worship and glorification. He loomed high and then, suddenly, heloomed alone!

There is that in woman which selects for its own. It is not merely theinstinct of mating, it is choice, in the main, and makes either forsuccess or failure--but it always has its compensations in that vague, groping sense that calls for its own. The world may look on wondering ordismayed, but the woman, under the crude exterior, clings to the idealshe sought. 

With Nancy and Raymond conditions favoured the moment. Nancy had a widechoice and she was radiantly happy. Doris saw to it that the girl shouldsee and hear the best of everything and be free to live her daysunfettered. 

Raymond had inherited the purest desires for family and home--he hadnever seen them gratified in his parents' life, so they still laydormant in his heart. Nancy presently awakened them and Cameron'smistaken attitude drove them into action. 

Raymond counted Nancy's charms. Her devotion to her aunt, her unselfishservice while her twin sister followed her own devices, Doctor Martin'svery pronounced admiration, and Mrs. Tweksbury's ardent affection allcarried him along like favouring winds. And presently the constantappearance of Cameron with Nancy lashed Raymond to the amazingconviction that he was in love!

He grew pale and abstracted; the revealment was pouring like light andsun into the depths of his nature. He wished that he was a better man;he thanked whatever god he reverenced that he was not a worse one. Herecalled the one foolish episode of his youth with contempt for hisweakness and gratitude for the escape--not only for himself but for theunknown girl. 

As a proof of the sincerity of his present change of heart he wishedabove everything that he might find the girl and confess to her, for hefelt, beyond doubt, that it would give her joy. 

He believed this, not because he wanted to believe it, but because hefelt the truth of it, and presently it gave him courage. 

But there was Cameron!

Finally Raymond discovered that his business was suffering. He grewindifferent to the exact hour of leaving his office; took no pride inhis well-regulated habits. He began to dislike Cameron and he dreamed ofNancy. Day and night he saw her as the safe and sweet solution of allthat was best in him. She held sacred what his inheritance reverenced;she was human and divine; she was his salvation--or Cameron's. 

At this point Mrs. Tweksbury gave him an unlooked-for stab. 

"Well!" she remarked with a groan--she never sighed, "I guess CliveCameron has got in at the death!"

She looked gruesome and defeated. Raymond grew hot and cold. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, and glared shamelessly. 

"I mean, " Mrs. Tweksbury confronted Raymond as if repudiating himforever, "I mean that you've let the chance of your life slip throughyour fingers and fall into the gaping mouth of that Clive Cameron. It'sdisgusting, nothing less!"

"Aunt Emily! What in thunder do you mean? Nancy Thornton has only beenhere a month; if she's so easily gobbled"--the discussion waxedcrude--"I'm sure I could not prevent it--I'm not a gobbler. "

"No--you're a fool!"

"Come, come, Aunt Emily. " Raymond flushed and Mrs. Tweksbury grewmahogany-tinted. 

"Oh! I know"--two tears--they were like solid balls--rolled down thedeep red cheeks. Almost it seemed that they would make a noise when theylanded on the expansive bosom. --"I sound brutal, but I'm the female ofthe species and it hurts to know defeat the--the second time. "

"The--second--time?" gasped Raymond. 

"Yes--your father! I could--oh! Ken, it is no shame to say it toyou--but I could have made him happy, but it came, the chance, too late. Then when you came I pledged my soul that I would try to secure yourhappiness. I know what you want, need, and deserve, and here is thisperfect child--the one woman for you, snatched from under your nose byClive Cameron who will--" Emily Tweksbury sought for a figure ofspeech--"who will, without doubt, end in dissecting her!"

"Good Lord!" gasped Raymond. The dramatic choice of words was unnervinghim. 

"Oh! you men, " spluttered Mrs. Tweksbury. "You make me weary--disgusted;you're no more fit to manage your affairs than babies, and yourmonumental conceit drives sensible women crazy. We ought to ask you tomarry us. We ought not wait to see you ruin yourselves and us, too. "

"But, Aunt Emily, why in thunder do you think Nancy Thornton cares forme? If she wants Cameron, why shouldn't she have him?"

At this Emily Tweksbury flung her head back and regarded Raymond withflaming eyes. 

"You--well!--just what are you? Can't you see? Could you possiblybelieve any girl would take Cameron if she had you to choose?"

At this Raymond laughed. He laughed with abandon, going the gamut ofemotions like a scale. But presently he became quiet, and a raretenderness overspread his face. He went over to Mrs. Tweksbury and bentto kiss her. 

"I never knew before, Aunt Emily, " he said, "just what a mother meant. I'm sorry, dear. Upon my word, I'm deadly sorry, but I'm made slow andcautious and mechanical--I'm afraid of making mistakes--and if I havelost because of my weakness, why, you and I must cling the closer. "

"Oh! Ken. When you talk like that I feel that I must go and have it outwith Nancy!"

"Aunt Emily, hands off!"

Raymond was suddenly stern, and Mrs. Tweksbury bowed before the tone. 

But Raymond meant to make sure before he accepted defeat. He spurredhimself to the test with the name of Emily Tweksbury on his lips. Thatname seemed to hold all his responsibilities and hopes--his long-agopast; the only claim upon the future except---- And in this Raymond wassincere. His own honest love for the girl who had entered his life sosoon after his doubt of himself had had birth made him fear to put hisfeet upon the broad highway. 

But he braced himself for effort and on a stormy, sleety Januaryafternoon he telephoned to Nancy and asked her if she were to be freethat evening. 

She was. And--to his shame Raymond heard it gleefully--she had a "sniffylittle cold" that made going out impossible. 

"Are you afraid of sniffy colds?" asked Nancy, "they say they arecatching!"

"I particularly like them, " Raymond returned. 

"We'll have a big fire in the sunken room and, " here Nancy gurgled overthe telephone, "we'll toast marshmallows. "

Raymond presented himself as early as he dared and was told by the maidto go to the sunken room. Believing that Nancy was there awaiting him, he approached with a beaming countenance. 

Cameron stood with his back to the roaring fire. 

"Hello, Ken!" he blurted, cheerfully. "You look like a gargoyle. "

"Thanks!" All the light and joy fled at the sight of the big fellow bythe hearth. Dispiritedly, Raymond sat down and resigned himself to whathe believed was the inevitable. 

Cameron regarded him critically as he might have a puzzling case. Then, having made a diagnosis, he prescribed:

"Sorry to see me here, old chap?"

"Why in thunder should I be?" Raymond glared. 

"No reason--but then reason isn't everything. Nancy's a bit off--I'dhate to have her confront that mug of yours, Ken, if I can soften it upany. I came to bring some medicine from Uncle David--he's worried aboutcolds these days. Nancy told me you were coming, she went upstairs totake her dose in private--she told me to stay and give you the glad handand explain. Somehow you don't look exactly appreciative. "

"Sorry!" Raymond found himself relaxing. "Want me to kiss you?"

"Try it! I'd like to have a fling at you. What's up, anyway, Ken? Seehere, old man, you know there might be any one of twenty fellows hereto-night--you ought to be on your knees thanking heaven that it's I--notone of the twenty. "

"What the devil do you mean?" Raymond got up, tried to feel resentmentbut could not. 

"Nothing, only I'm going and--well, Ken, don't be an ass. It don'tpay. "

Raymond tried to think of something to say, but before the right thingoccurred he heard Cameron's cheerful whistle cut off by the closing ofthe heavy front door. 

Then he sat down by the fire and did some thinking. It was the kind ofconcentrated thought that separates the chaff and wheat; foregoes theglitter of romance and reaches out for the guiding, unfailing light ofreality. 

How long he sat alone Raymond never realized. It seemed like years, thenlike a moment--but it brought him to Nancy as she stood at the top ofthe flight of steps leading to the warm, fire-lighted room while thefountain splashed cheerfully and a restless, curious little birdtwittered in its cage. 

Nancy wore the faintest of blue gowns; a cloudlike scarf fell from hershoulders; her eyes held the full confession of her love as they met thegroping in Raymond's. 

He opened his arms. 

"My darling!" he said, "will you come?"

Slowly, radiantly, Nancy stepped down. 

"It seems as if I'd always been coming, " she was saying. "I--I don'twant to hurry now that I--I see you. "

"I--I think I've always been coming, too, " Raymond would not take astep, "but I was walking in the dark. "

"And I----" but Nancy did not finish her sentence--she had found herheart's desire. 

"I'm not worthy, " murmured Raymond, pressing the light hair with hislips. 

"Neither am I. We'll grow worthy together. It's like finding a beautifulthing we both were seeking. It isn't you or I--alone--it is somethingoutside us that we are going to make--ours. "

Spiritually Raymond got upon his knees, humanly he pressed the girlclose. 

"It's--you--the Thing is--_you_" he whispered, and at that moment knewthe last, definite difference between what he now felt and--all that hadgone before. 

CHAPTER XXI

"_To suffer sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. This is agreat truth that has to be learned in the fire. _"

It was all so exactly as it should be--the love affair of Nancy andRaymond--that it lacked excitement. There was a moment when Doris andDavid Martin looked into each other's eyes and sadly smiled; but thatwas past as it came. 

"It's all right, Davey!"

"Of course, Doris, and Bud wasn't in it after all. It was ourdesire--not his. He seems to feel he ought to be cheered for whoopingthe thing on; making Raymond jealous, you know. "

"Dear boy!"

"Thanks, Doris. He is something worth while. "

Mrs. Tweksbury was so expansive in her happiness that she embarrassedNancy. She fairly bounded over the fragrant garden of new love andscanned the wide pastures beyond. 

"Ken, if I can see children in this old house, I'll thank God and departin peace. Say that you will come here, boy. You know I'm alwaysscuttling overseas. I won't be in the way--but it is the one desire ofmy shrivelled old heart. "

"Aunt Emily, go slow and don't be ridiculous. The idea of your being inthe way in your own house!"

"Ken, make Nancy love me. I know I'm gnarled and crusty, but I need whatshe has to give all the more because of that. I have no pride--I wantthat girl's love so--that I'd--I'd humble myself. "

Raymond kissed her. 

"Has she told you of her--her sister--yet?" Mrs. Tweksbury asked. 

"Yes. Nancy says that until Joan, that's the name I believe, comes homeshe cannot leave Miss Fletcher. Nancy must not sacrifice herself. "

Raymond was quickly assuming the charms of ownership. 

"She always has been, " snapped Mrs. Tweksbury, "an unconscious offering. Where is her gad-about sister?"

"I forget--out West somewhere, I believe. "

"What is she doing?"

"The Lord knows. I got a very disagreeable impression of her. I didn'tdo much questioning--Nancy was on the defensive. She adores her sister. "

"Bless the child! I have an unpleasant remembrance of the girl, too. "Mrs. Tweksbury smiled grimly. "She was always a pert chit, and I believeshe is like her disreputable father--you know about him, Ken?"

"Yes--something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him--she says she wants to havea talk later on. But what do I care, Aunt Emily?"

"I should rather like to know, myself. " Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scandal. "I never have been sure about him, but I know he was socially abovereproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if hehad his roots in good soil instead of mud, it isn't fatal. "

"Bosh! Aunt Emily. "

"Bosh! all you want to, boy. It's easy to bosh when you're on the safeside--but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference. "

"Nancy speaks for herself, Aunt Emily. "

"Yes, thank God, and redeems her father. Wait until you see the sister. She was a lovely, distracting imp--but with a queer twist. I shouldn'tbe surprised a bit if she needs a deal of explaining and excusing. "

But when Nancy's wonderful news reached Joan in the tiny Chicago home itmade her very tender and wistful. 

"Think, Pat, of dear little Nan--going to be married. Married!"

Patricia, who shared all Joan's letters, lighted a cigarette and puffedfor a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quotedeloquently:

 "There was a little woman, So I've heard tell, Who went to market, Her eggs for to sell!"

Joan stared. 

"My lamb, for this cause came Nancy and her kind into the world. "

"I don't understand, Pat. " Joan's eyes were shining and misty. 

"Well, what on earth would you do with Nancy if you didn't marry heroff? If she were homely she'd have to fill in chinks in other people'slives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, nottoo much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up forsale and off she goes!"

"Pat, you are vulgar! Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls. She wouldonly marry for love. "

"Sure thing, my lamb. And she could make love out of--anything. "

Joan was thinking of Nancy's capacity for making truth. 

"Dear, little, sweet Nan, " she whispered. 

"Just the right stuff out of which to make successful marriages. Who isthe collector, Joan?"

"Pat, you make me angry!" Joan really was hurt. 

"She doesn't tell me his name. She says----" here Joan referred to theletter; "'I am going to try and keep him until you come and see him. Joan, he is worth a trip from Chicago. '"

"You are--going?" asked Patricia. 

"Pat--I am. Only for a visit, but suddenly I find myself crazy hungryfor them all. 

"I'll be back in a couple of weeks; I'll only lose three lessons andsurely, Pat, you'll forgive me if I desert you for that one glimpse ofmy darling Nan and her man?"

"I suppose so. But, Joan, don't stay long. I know how the reformeddrunkard feels when he's left to his lonesome. He doubts hisreformation. "

"Pat!" Joan felt the tug of responsibility. 

The next night Patricia came home with a bedraggled little dog in herarms. 

"Where did you find that, Pat?" Joan paused in her task of gettingdinner and fondled the absurd creature. 

"Oh! he was browsing along like a lost soul, sniffing to find--not ascent, I wager he never had one of his own, but a possible one. Out ofall the mob, Joan, he chose me! He came up, nosed around my feet, andthen whined delightedly--the old fraud! I picked him up and looked inhis eyes--I know the look, Joan. He might be my never-had-brother, thereis a family resemblance. "

"Pat, how silly. "

"No joking, lamb. I couldn't ignore the appeal--besides, he'll keep mestraight while you are away. "

"Pat--come with me!" Joan bent over the dog, who already showed hispreference for Patricia. 

"I cannot, Joan. The trade is growing--I am planning an exhibition. I'mashamed to say it, but the business is getting into my gray matter. No--go to your duty, lamb--the pup and I will get acquainted and make upfor lost time. "

And while Joan made preparations to go to New York, and while Doris andNancy planned to make her visit a success, something occurred thatchanged all their lives. It was the epidemic of influenza. The shroudedand menacing Thing approached like the plague that it was to proveitself. It was no discerner of people; its area was limitless, itharvested whence it would and, while it was named, it was notunderstood. 

David Martin ordered Doris and Nancy out of town at once. 

"You may not escape, " he said, "but your best chance is in the open. Besides, you'll leave us freer here. "

"But Joan--David!"

"Joan be hanged! Can't she get to Ridge House?"

"Of course. But I wanted to have her here to--to justify herself. EmilyTweksbury is trying to make a tragedy of Joan. I'm afraid Ken suspectsher--his awful silences are insulting--I wanted to--to show her off. "

"Nonsense, Doris! But this is no time for squibbling. Scoot!"

"But--you, David!"

"I? Oh! I'm all right. Remember I have Bud. Why, the chap is pulling uphis sleeves and baring his breast to the foe. I'm going to stand closeby him. "

Martin's eyes shone. 

"David, if anything should happen to you----" Doris paused. 

"I'll run down now and then, " Martin took the thin, delicate hands inhis. "I'll come--when I feel tired. "

"You promise, David?"

"I--swear it. "

So Doris took Nancy away. A tearful, woe-begone Nancy who clung toRaymond with the tenacity of a love that faces a desperate situation. 

"Beloved, " whispered Raymond, "I'm going to get Aunt Emily out of thedanger zone and then I'll come to you. If this Joan of yours hasarrived--we'll be married, you and I, at once. We don't care for thesociety fizz. This epidemic makes you think about--taking joy while youcan. "

"Yes, Ken--if--if Joan will stay with Aunt Dorrie. "

"Well, by heaven! She'll have to stay. I'm not going to let them cheatme!"

To this Nancy gave a look that thrilled Raymond as he had never beenthrilled before--it was supreme surrender. 

And presently in the stricken city gaiety and laughter seemed to dieaway in the black, swooping shadow. 

"When you use up all you know, " Clive Cameron said one night to David, "you still keep hunting about for something else, don't you?"

Martin nodded. Both men were worn and haggard. They were fighting in thefront ranks with the men of their profession--fighting an unknown foe, but bravely gaining confidence. 

"The death rate is lower to-day, Bud. Hang to that!"

"I do, Uncle Dave. If it still goes down, will you take a vacation?"

"You are willing to go it alone, boy?"

"Yes!" grimly. "I know I must. "

The two men relaxed and smoked peacefully, their feet stretched out tothe fire. Their long day warranted this pause. They were strangelyalike; strangely unlike. Occasionally their eyes met and then their lipssmiled. 

They were friends. The blood tie was incidental. 

"You ought to be married, Clive. "

"Why, especially?"

"A man should; a doctor especially. A wife and children are better tocome home to than a pipe--and a housekeeper. "

"You managed to buck along, Uncle Dave. "

"Yes--buck along! I couldn't make up my mind to----"

"I understand, Uncle Dave. Miss Fletcher is great stuff--she makes otherwomen look cheap. "

"Bud, some women are like that. "

"I suppose so. "

Both men shook the ashes from their pipes--there was a night's workahead. 

Martin stared at the young face opposite. It was a strong, kind face--aface waiting for the high waves to strike it. Martin seemed never tohave known the boy, really, before. 

"Bud, suppose you never find your woman?" he asked, huskily. 

"All right, then I'll peg along with that much lacking. Oh! I know whatyou are thinking of, Uncle Dave. I've been through it--and turned itdown! Ever since I can remember I've kept a grip on myself byremembering you!"

"Good God, boy!" Martin choked; "I'm a poor model. At the best I'vebeen--neutral. "

"Like hell you have!" irreverently ejaculated Cameron, pleasantly. "Why, Uncle Dave, you've got muscle all over you from fighting the demon inyou, but you have no ugly scars. We can look each other in the eyes aswe couldn't--if there were scars. It's all right, Uncle Dave. We'll getMother here before long and have a bully time. "

Martin could not speak for a moment; he was looking ahead to the timewhen he'd have only this boy and his mother!

"Well, what's up, Uncle Dave?"

"Bud, have you suspected anything about Miss Fletcher? Her health, Imean?"

"Yes. I've studied about her, too. "

"And kept quiet, eh?"

"Sure! But, Uncle Davie, if we--" Martin blessed him for that "we"--"ifwe could get her outside of herself, it would do a lot for her. I've ahunch that you have let her get on the shelf. I wouldn't if I were you!I know it may be necessary to keep her to rules, but she thinks too muchabout the rules; they cramp her. When Nancy marries--what then?"

"The Lord knows!"

"Where's that other girl--Joan?"

Martin's face hardened. 

"Living her life. _Her_ life, " he said. 

"Anything--dirty about it?" Cameron asked. 

"No. So far as I can find out, she's just taking what she calls _herown_. "

"Well, why shouldn't she, Uncle Dave? By all that's holy why shouldn't awoman have her own as well as a fellow? Just because she was born topetticoats doesn't mean that she's born to all the jobs men don't want. "

"There are certain things the world exacts of a woman, Bud. "

"What, for instance, Uncle Dave?"

Martin considered. He was a just man, but he was prejudiced. 

"Self-sacrifice, for one thing!"

"Who says so? Who benefits most by her self-sacrifice?" Cameron flushedas he rambled on. "We may split on this rock, Uncle, " he blurted. "Thinkof my mother--I sort of resent it, because I _am_ a man, that weidealize virtues and plaster them on women when we know jolly well, ifwe lathered them on ourselves, we'd cave in under them. It's up to thewoman! That's what I say. Let her select her own little virtues and seeto it that she squares it with her soul and then men--well, men keep tothe right and keep moving!"

Having flared forth, Cameron laughed at his own fireworks. 

"Joan is selfish, Nancy quite the reverse. " Martin's brows drewtogether. "Don't be an ass, Bud!"

"What's this Joan doing?"

"Thinking she's gifted, " snapped Martin. 

"How is she to find out if she doesn't try? Is Miss Fletcher paying forthe racket?"

"No. That's the rub. The girl's paying for it herself. Smudging herselfdoing it, too. A woman can't escape the smudge. "

"Oh! well"--Cameron was tiring of it all--"it's when the smudge sticksthat counts. If it is only skin deep, it doesn't matter. "

"But--a woman, Bud--well, skin matters in a woman. "

"Who says so? Oh! chuck it, Uncle Dave. Which shall it be--bed for anhour or a rarebit at Tumbles and then--on to the fight?"

"What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty. "

"Bud, let us have another look at our salvage before we choose; if wefind them sleeping, we'll take the rarebit as a recompense for a night'ssleep. "

And together they went out into the night. Two tired men who had done astiff day's work--but felt that they must make sure before they soughtrest for themselves. 

 * * * * *

And Joan and Patricia faced the epidemic as so many of the youngdid--nothing really _could_ happen to them, they believed--and Chicagowas not paying so heavy a toll. 

"We'll take a little extra care with food and sleep and wet feet, " Joancautioned, "and I'll put off my visit, Pat, for awhile. "

"And, Joan, " Patricia said, laughingly, "keep your mouth shut in thestreet!"

The four little rooms were sunshiny and warm; Joan sang hour by hour;worked at her music and "made the home, " while Patricia kept to herrigid hours and designed marvellous things in which other womenrevelled. 

Since Nancy had gone South and her beloved was absent, Joan felt thather duty was to Patricia. Without being able to classify her feeling sheclung to Patricia with a nameless anxiety. 

She taught the little dog to fetch Patricia's slippers to theliving-room fire; she always had dinner ready when, tired and frail, Patricia appeared with that glad light in her eyes. 

"You act as if I, not you, were going away, my lamb, " Patricia oftensaid; "but you are a blessing! And Cuff"--she leaned down and gatheredthe small, quivering dog in her arms--"and Cuff runs you a closesecond. "

Cuff wagged his stubby tail excitedly. He was a proud creature, a proofof what could be done with a bad job, and he had all the snobbishnessthat is acquired, not bred in the bone. He slept on the foot ofPatricia's bed and forgot back alleys. He selected tidbits with the airof one who knew not garbage cans, but he redeemed all shortcomings byhis faithful love to her who had rescued him. The melting brown eyesfound their highest joy in Patricia's approval, and a harsh word fromher brought his diminutive tail between his legs for an hour. 

It was April when Patricia came up the stairs, one night, laggingly. Cuff was on the landing with his token of devotion. The girl picked himup, kissed his smooth body and went on, more slowly. Joan had the tableset for the dainty dinner by the broad western window. She turned whenPatricia entered. 

"What's the matter, Pat?" she asked. 

"Nothing, only Cuff is growing heavy. "

"Are you tired?"

"Not a bit. What a wonder you are, Joan! That table is a dream withthose daffodils in the green bowl. Old Syl was right--you put the punchin home!"

"There's chicken to-night, Pat. I plunged on the strength of what myProfessor said to-day. "

There were times when Joan wondered if Patricia was not insisting uponhome more for her sake than her own. 

"What did she say, Joan?"

"That next winter I might--sing!"

"Bully! But you sing now--like several kinds of seraphs. Warble while Imake ready for dinner, Joan. "

So Joan sang as she flitted from kitchen to dining room. 

 "I'll take the high road and you take the low road And I'll get to Scotland before you----"

she rippled, and Patricia joined in:

 "I'll get to Scotland before you!"

Then she said, from the bedroom beyond:

"I know what it is in your singing that gets us, Joan. It's the wholelot more than words can express. "

"Of course! That's high art, Pat! Come on, dearie-thing, you mustcarve. "

"Now, Scotland"--Patricia issued forth in a lovely gown and Joan droppedher long apron and appeared a happy reflection of Patricia'smagnificence--"Scotland stands for everything your soul wants when yousing. Not a place--but--everything. "

"Yes. That's what I feel, " Joan replied, quite seriously. 

Patricia did not eat much that evening, but she gave the impression thatshe was doing so. 

The girls always disposed of the dishes, after dinner, in a wizard-likemanner. They disappeared until morning--and no questions were asked!

Then, when the meal was over this night, Patricia flung herself on thecouch, clasped Cuff in her arms, and asked Joan to sing her to sleep. 

"You _are_ tired, Pat. Was it a hard day?"

Joan came wistfully to the couch. 

"No, not hard, only bracing. They're going to raise me in the summer, Joan. We'll be fat and lazy next winter--and just think: the summer inThe Gap lies between!" For that was what Joan's deferred visit hadresolved itself into. 

"Pat, your cheeks are--red!"

"Joan, don't be silly. I touched them up. I never could see thedifference between rouge and dyes and powder and false teeth! They'reall aimed at the same thing--and it isn't mastication, either. It's howyou handle the aids to beauty. "

"Dear, funny, pretty old Pat!"

"Joan, go and sing!"

That night Cuff was dreaming the old haunting dream about waking up inthe gutter when something startled him. It was a very soft call. 

"Come up here, Cuff, I want you--close!"

Cuff needed no second invitation! But the closer he got the more nervoushe became. 

"Cuff, look at me!"

Cuff looked. 

"Cuff--once--you wouldn't have looked!"

Cuff denied this by a vigorous whack of his stumpy tail. 

There were a few minutes more during which Patricia said some veryremarkable things about being glad that children and dogs could look ather; and that Joan felt happy with her, and that love had something tosay for itself if you didn't wrong it, and then Cuff voluntarily jumpedfrom the bed and scampered into Joan's room. Joan was sleeping and Cuffhad to tug rather savagely at her sleeve before he attracted herattention. But when Joan was awake every sense was alert. 

"What's the matter?" she asked, but while she was speaking she was onher way to Patricia's room. 

Patricia was tossing about and laughing gently; she was insisting thatshe was going up the Climbing Way and that the travelling was hard andthe weather hot! For a moment Joan stood still. All her strengthdeserted her, but in that instant she knew the worst, as people do attimes--when the end is near!

It was only three days for Patricia and she never realized the truth forherself. A nurse, a weary but faithful doctor, and Joan kept her companyon the Climbing Way which got easier toward the top. 

 "You take the high road and I'll take the low road But I'll get to Scotland before you----"

It was Patricia who sang, not Joan, and then she laughed gaily. 

"I bet I will beat you out, Joan--but it wasn't--Scotland, you knowit--was--home!"

Just before the top was reached Patricia grew quiet and grave. She clungto Joan with one hand and patted Cuff with the other. 

"I think, " she whispered, "that when dogs and little children can lookyou in the eye, God can!"

She did not speak much after that--but she sang in fragments, hummedwhen very tired, and murmured--"Nice little old Joan and Cuff, " justbefore she reached--home!

It was all so crushingly sudden that Joan was dazed and could not feelat all. Fortunately, the nurse arranged to stay with her for a week, andthe doctor acted, through all his burdened days, as if an extra load wasreally a comfort to him. He asked Joan what steps he should take aboutPatricia, and Joan stared at him. 

"You see, Pat just belonged to me, " she explained; "and--and well! mustI decide anything just now?"

"I think we must--about the body--you know!" The doctor felt his heartbeat quicker as he gazed into the wide, tearless eyes. 

"The--the body? Oh! I see what you mean. I--I was going to take Pat homenext summer; this summer--but----"

"Perhaps we can arrange to have the body remain here in Chicago untilyou make plans. "

"Oh! if you only could. " Joan looked her gratitude. 

And so Patricia Leigh was laid to rest in the vault of strangers untilthe girl who had loved her could realize the thing that had overtakenher. 

In the lonely rooms the empty stillness acted like a drug upon Joan. Shemechanically performed the small services she used to perform so gladlyfor Patricia. She held Cuff in her arms as she repeated:

"It cannot be, Cuff, dear, it cannot! Such a terrible thing couldn'thappen--not without warning. She _will_ come back; she will, Cuff--please don't look so sad!"

It was three weeks after Patricia went that Cuff met Joan as she enteredthe room--with Patricia's slippers which he had found where Joan hadhidden them! The sight of the pathetic little figure touched somethingin Joan and it sprang to hurting, suffering life. 

For hours the girl wept in the dark rooms. She begged for death;anything to dull forever the pain that she could not understand. But thegrief saved her and she began to think for herself, since no one wasthere to think for her. The city was full of sickness and death. Thosewho could, must do for themselves. Joan had not written home; shewondered what she had done in all the ages since Pat went. 

All Patricia's small affairs were in order. Her money and Joan's werebanked under both names, and the dreary little home was but an emptyshell. 

"I've failed--utterly, " the girl sobbed over Cuff in her arms; "I toldAunt Dorrie when I found that out--I would go to her. "

So Joan sold the furniture and sublet the rooms; she paid her smalldebts and promised her music teacher that she would continue her work inNew York. Then she turned wearily, aimlessly--homeward, with Cuff in herarms. 

CHAPTER XXII

"_Love, hope, fear, faith--these make humanity!_"

The trip to New York was always marked in later years, to Joan, by themost trivial occurrences. 

The passing to and fro to the baggage car where Cuff, a crumpled andquivering mass, seemed to ask her what it all meant; the sense ofeagerness to get to The Gap before it was too late; the determinationnot to frighten any one she meant to telegraph from New York; she wouldleave her trunks in the station and take a bag to a little hotel whereshe and Pat had stayed the night before they fled from New York. So far, all was clear. 

So she planned; forgot, and planned again. Between these wanderings andthe care of Cuff there were long hours of forgetfulness and a sound ofrushing water--or was it the train plunging through the dark?

Once in New York, with Cuff trotting behind, Joan seemed to gatherstrength--but not clear vision. She went to the small hotel and secureda room. She meant to telegraph and buy her ticket South--but instead shefed Cuff, took a little food herself, and fell asleep. It was late whenshe awakened to a realization of acute suffering that seemed confusedand spasmodic. It was like being partially conscious. She was frightenedand tried to fix upon some direct and immediate means of securing helpfor herself. She did not want to call assistance from the office, so shegot up and dressed and half staggered downstairs. It needed all hereffort to hold to one thought long enough to accomplish anything. 

First there was Cuff. She must get Cuff, quiet his nervousness, and feedhim. Then with that in mind she took food herself--as much as she couldswallow. It was while she was forcing herself to this task that DoctorMartin came, like an actual presence, to her consciousness. 

Why had she not thought of him before?

"Uncle Davey!" she murmured and her eyes filled with tears. Of course!She would take a cab to Doctor Martin's office and then everything wouldbe solved. He would take care of her; send word to The Gap; protect AuntDoris and Nancy from shock. She began to laugh quietly, tremblingly--shewas safe at last. Safe!

It was after ten o'clock when she paid her taxi driver in front ofMartin's office and dismissed him. Gathering Cuff in one aching arm andclutching her bag she slowly, painfully mounted the steps withoutnoticing the sign bearing a new name. 

If anything were needed to prove how detached Joan had been for the pastyear or two it was this ignorance concerning the arrangement betweenMartin and his nephew. Had she not been on the border of delirium shewould have recalled certain things which would have guided her; as itwas she felt, dazedly, for the bell, pressed the button, and to the maidwho responded she faintly said:

"I--I want the doctor. " She looked, indeed, as if this were shockinglytrue. 

"It's past office hours, " stammered the girl, a little scared; "butperhaps if you come in----"

Joan staggered in and, seeing a door open at the end of the hall, reached it, entered, and sank down in a chair with the astonished eyesof Clive Cameron upon her!

He was ready for his rounds--was on the way, then, to his hospital; itwas Martin's pet institution and Cameron's first care in the morning. 

"I'm--tired, " Joan informed him. "Please take care of--Cuff!"

And then everything went black and quiet. 

Never in all his life had Cameron had anything so surprising happen tohim. He looked at the girl, whom he managed to carry to the couch; heturned to the dog whose faithful eyes rather steadied him, then heapplied all the remedies that one does at such times. Eventually Joanrevived, but she stared vacantly at the face above her and did notattempt to speak. 

Presently Cameron called in his nurse. 

"I think it is brain fever, " he explained to the cool, capable woman whoasked naturally:

"Who is she?"

"The Lord knows. "

"Where did she come from? Where does she belong?"

"The Lord knows. She just came in with the dog and then dropped afterasking me to care for--for Cuff--yes, that's what she called him--thenshe went off. "

"It's a duck of a dog, " the nurse remarked as one does make inaneremarks at a critical time. Then:

"Have you looked in her bag?"

"Certainly not!"

"We had better. " And they did. 

There was a trunk key, seventy-five dollars, and a letter signed "Syl, "and frivolously dilating upon a man named John and loads of love to MissLamb!

"Well!" said the nurse, "and as one might expect, no heading, date, orany sensible clue--and the envelope missing. We must label this patient, I suppose, as Miss Lamb. The articles of clothing are unmarked. Queerall around!"

"We must get her into the hospital at once, " Cameron replied. The doctorin him was getting into action. 

"Can we manage her in my car?"

"Yes, Doctor. "

"Then get busy. Call her Miss Lamb when you have to answer questions. Wecan find out about her later. Where's that dog?"

Cuff was making himself invisible. He was under the couch. 

"Have him fed and taken care of, Miss Brown--tell the maid. "

Joan leaned against Cameron on the way to the hospital while Miss Brownkept a finger on her pulse. The girl's body acted mechanically, but thebrain was clogged. 

Day by day in the white, quiet hospital room the battle for her lifewent on; day by day outside effort was made to trace her and find herfriends. 

"You wise-looking brute, " Cameron often thought as he regarded Cuff atthe day's end; "why can't you tell what you know?"

But Cuff simply wagged his stump and slunk off. Life was becoming toopuzzling for him. 

Cameron studied advertisements and certain columns in the papers, but noone seemed to have missed the pretty young creature in the MartinSanatorium. 

"It's the very devil of a case!" Cameron declared, and set abouterecting some sort of foundation upon which "Miss Lamb" might reposewithout causing too much unhealthy curiosity. 

Eventually, Joan was simply a bad case of Doctor Cameron's. One from outof town. Her folks trusted him, but were too distant to visit the girl. 

Cameron considered telegraphing for Martin, who was at The Gap, but heknew that sooner or later he must rely upon himself alone, and so hebegan with "Miss Lamb. "

The days and weeks dragged on. There were ups and downs, hopes anddiscouragements, but through them all Joan looked dazedly at Cameron, and if she ever showed intelligence it was when he spoke to her in aperfectly new set of tones that were being incorporated into his voiceand which seemed to disturb her. To all questions, as to names, the girlin the dim room returned a dull stare and silence, but there were timeswhen she deliriously rambled intimate confidences. When these timesoccurred, Cameron, if he chanced to be present, ordered the nurse fromthe room and listened alone. He was relieved to hear that the patientrarely spoke when he was not with her. 

Joan dwelt upon her failure--her longing to go to Pat. 

These items Cameron recorded in a small red book, for his memory wasnone too good and he was busy to a dangerous degree. 

Then, again, the sick girl depicted the night of the storm--the shockand consequent flight. 

"But, " she pleaded piteously, holding the strong hand that anchored herto life, "he won! he won, and it is always going to be all right. Oh! ifhe could only know!"

There would be a pause always ending in: "I want Pat. "

"Where is--Pat?" Cameron ventured. 

"Home!" And then, weakly, but with a wrenching pathos, Joan sang--"_I'llget to--Scotland_--no! _home_--before you!"

"Come, come, now!" Cameron pressed the thin form down. "You know you'vegot to live--for Pat. "

"Yes--for Pat. " And then Joan would sleep. 

It was a day in late May that Cameron noticed a change in his case. Shewas weaker, but steadier. She seemed to connect him with something inthe recent past, and that encouraged him. All her previous consciousmoments had been like detached flashes. 

"What was it you said I must live for?" she asked Cameron. "I'veforgotten. "

"For everything, " he replied, throwing off his coat and gripping thepromising moment. "You're not the kind to slink out. Besides, you've gotto tell me about your folks. Give them a chance to prove themselves andset things straight. " Cameron watched the struggle on the thin face. "And there is--Pat!" he added. 

Joan looked amazed and then quivered. 

"Yes, Pat, of course!"

There was a long pause, the consciousness was seeking something to whichit might cling. Something forever eluding it. 

A day or two later Cameron brought the dog into the sick room. Joanturned as she heard steps. 

"Cuff!" she cried and then, as the dog leaped on to her, she sobbed andmurmured over and over: "Pat's little Cuff; Pat's little Cuff. "

Her way on ahead was safer after that--safer but more secretive. 

As Joan got control of her thoughts she became more silent andwatchful. She questioned the nurse and found out where she was and howlong she had been there; she smiled with her old touch of humour whenshe was called Miss Lamb but gave thanks that she had a name not herown!

She regarded Cameron with deep gratitude, but drove him to a corner byinsisting that he tell her how much she owed him. 

Cameron, having her purse under lock and key, at home, told her she owedthe hospital fifty dollars. 

At that Joan laughed, and the sound gave Cameron more hope than he hadknown for some time, but it seemed to mark, also, Joan's completeself-control. 

Often she lay for hours with closed eyes and wondered with a bit ofself-pity why she had not been discovered? Had she so completely droppedfrom the lives of those she loved that they had forgotten her? She didnot know, for some time to come, of the letters to her that werereturned to The Gap! She was never to know, fully, the anguish thatDoris Fletcher was enduring in her mistaken determination not to hamperthe girl who was testing her strength. 

While David Martin rated her for ingratitude and carelessness; whileNancy's face set in resentment and disapproval, Doris smiled andinsisted that she would not judge until Joan explained. 

"Of course, " she added, "if anything were really wrong Joan or Patriciawould write. They are probably away on business--and at the worst theywill soon let me know when to expect them. Joan was always a poorcorrespondent. "

"Would you like to have me go to Chicago?" Martin asked. 

"David, would you go if--it were your boy?" Doris hung on his answer. 

"I jolly well wouldn't! I'd let the scamp learn the whole lesson. "

"Very well, then I do not want you to go to Chicago!"

Joan, slowly recovering, could hardly have explained to herself why shewas so secretive, but more and more she determined not to go to The Gapand open her heart to Doris until she was able to command the situation. Since she had, for some reason, dropped from their lives, she wouldwait. Meanwhile, her heart ached with the pity of it all. 

She wondered how the name of Lamb had ever been attached to her, andfinally she decided to ask Cameron about it. 

It was Cameron's custom, now, to delay his call upon Joan until lateafternoon. When he was on his way to dinner he took a half hour or moreto sit beside her bed and indulge in various emotions. 

So long as Joan had been a desperate case she had no individuality atall, except scientifically. 

She was bathed, and eventually her hair was cut, not shaved--the nurseput in a plea at the cutting point--and she was fed and made to sleep;but gradually, as she emerged from the shadowy boundary, she assumeddifferent proportions. 

Cameron concluded that her reticence, now her brain was growing clearer, came from a determined effort to cover her tracks and perhaps those of aman--unworthy, undoubtedly, and Cameron believed this man to be the"Pat" to whom his patient had so frantically referred in her raving. 

There had evidently been a strenuous scene in which Pat had figured andthrough which he and the girl had emerged rather deplorably. 

Cameron also arrived at the conclusion that the young woman in his caremust be made to take a keener interest in life than she seemed to betaking, or her recovery would be slower than it ought to be, accordingto physical indications. The growing silence worried him; he wished thathe could gain her confidence, not in order to gratify curiosity, but toenable him to be of real service. 

One afternoon he called at the hospital reinforced with a box of roses. 

The flowers had an immediate effect upon Joan. She buried her face inthem and closed her eyes, and then Cameron saw large, slow tearsescaping the close-shut lids. He welcomed these. Presently Joan asked:

"How is--is--Cuff?"

"Oh! he's ripping, " Cameron replied; "after seeing you he seemed to sizeup the situation and come to terms. "

"How--how did you happen to know his name?" This had been a burningcuriosity for the past week. 

"You happened to mention it when you keeled over in my office. Cuff wasapparently your one responsibility. We found your name in a letter--MissLamb. "

The roses hid the quivering face while a new and hurting question forthe first time entered in. Then:

"Did--did I go to your office? I thought I--was brought here from----"

"You were brought here, all right, " Cameron felt his way slowly alongthe opening path; "Miss Brown and I had rather a vigorous trip withyou--in my automobile. "

"Cuff belonged to--to Pat!" Joan remarked, irrelevantly. She was forcingher thought back to the blank period lying between the hotel and thehospital. Gradually it brightened and a smothered sob found place in theroses. 

"So that is why they have left me alone!" Joan reflected; "but oh! howfrightened they must be!"

"I rather imagine Pat must be fairly well used up wondering about you, "Cameron was saying as if the whole matter were an everyday affair, butrather annoying; "queer things happen in a big city. We've done our bestto locate your friends; I think some of the officials I have consultedhave their doubts as to my mental condition. I kept under cover as wellas I could until you were well enough to act for yourself. "

"Thank you--oh! thank you. " This very faintly and brokenly. 

"You see, you are one of the cases that prove that an impossibilityis--possible. Truth-stronger-than-fiction idea. But if you would like meto communicate with Pat, I'll be glad to help you. "

"No--I will wait now. " Joan drew her lips close. 

Cameron controlled his features while he listened, but he never referredto Pat again. 

"I've sometimes thought, " Cameron spoke calmly, "that you might havebeen looking for my uncle, Doctor Martin, when you stumbled into his oldoffice. I could not flatter myself that you were bent upon obtaining myservices. "

At this Joan astonished Cameron almost as much as if she had sat up inher coffin. 

She rose, as though propelled by a spring, she stared at him and then, as slowly, sank back, still holding him with her eyes that seemedpreternaturally large. 

"Oh! come now!" Cameron exclaimed. "What's up?" He took her hand andbent over her and to his amaze discovered that she was laughing! Hetouched the bell. Things were bewildering him--Miss Brown always managedtrying situations by reducing them to normal. She responded at once;cool, serene, and capable. 

"Nerves?" she asked. And then took command. She raised Joan and settledthe pillows into new lines; she removed the roses almost sternly--shedisliked the nuisance of flowers in a sick room. 

"There, now!" she whispered to Joan, "take this drink and go to sleeplike a good girl. "

In the face of this sound common sense laughing was out of the question. Joan pretended sleep rather than risk another: "There, now!"

But her recovery was rapid after that day. Like a veil withdrawn shereflected upon the past as if it were, not a story that was told, but apreface to the real story that her life must be. 

The folly, the irresponsibility, no longer dismayed her, but gave herreasons and arguments. 

She wanted to live at last! She wanted to go home and separate herselfforever from the cheap, theatrical thing she had believed was freedom!She saw the folly of it all; she seemed an old woman regarding thedangerous passage of a younger one. 

She realized her own selfishness in her demand for self-expression. Whathad she expressed while others fixed their faithful eyes on duty?

Nancy shone high and clear in those dull hospital days. Nancy whodemanded so little, but who trod, with divine patience, the truercourse. 

"Well, Nan shall have her own!" Joan thought, and gripped her thin handsunder the bedclothes. "I'll strive for Nan as I never have for myself. "

Out of the d�bris of the feverish past Joan held alone to Patricia. Strange, it seemed to her, that the dead girl should have grown to suchimportance, but so it was. Patricia was the real, the sacred thing, andshe planned the home-bringing of the dear body and the placing of it onthe hillside in The Gap. 

And through the convalescing days Cameron had his place, like a fixedstar. 

Often worn by the day's silent remorse and earnest promise as to thefuture, Joan looked to that hour when Cameron, calm, serious butcheerful, sat by her bedside--a strong link between the folly of thepast and the hope of the times on ahead. 

Vaguely she recalled the blurred weeks of fever and pain, and always hisquiet voice and cool touch held part. 

"And to think, " Joan could but smile, "that he does not know me--but Iknow who he is just as I knew about----" She could not name Raymondyet--she could only think kindly of him when she held to the days beforethat last, tragic night. 

And Cameron, meanwhile, was drawing wrong conclusions. Not that theychanged his personal attitude toward the girl whose life he had helpedsave. To him she was a human creature whose faith in her future must berestored as her body was in the process of being. Cameron believed instepping-stones and was utterly opposed to waste of any kind. 

"She's paid her debt and his, too, I wager, " Cameron often muttered;"that's the devil of it all, and she'll go on and perhaps down--if shedoesn't get a start up. If I could only get hold of her folks--it wouldhelp!"

But Joan held him at bay when he ventured on that line. 

"When I am quite well, " she said with gentle dignity, "I am going homeand do my own explaining. "

"Are you considering--them?" Cameron frowned at her. 

"I am--as I never have before!"

To this silence was the only reply. 

Presently Joan made her first big stride toward complete recovery. Sheforsook her bed during the day and, in pink gown and daintycap--procured by Miss Brown--she passed from a "case" to an individual. 

The twilight hour now became something of a function and Cameron droppedhis professional manner with his outdoor trappings and appeared, often, as a tired but very humanly interesting young man. 

He talked of safe, ordinary things, he brought books and flowers, andwhile Miss Brown kept a rigid appearance, she inwardly sniffed--or theequivalent. 

And then came the Sunday before Joan was to leave the hospital. Ithappened to be Easter, and a woman was singing in the little chapel downthe hall. The room doors were open and the sweet words and melodyfloated in to the silent listeners--Joan pictured them as she sat andfelt her tears roll down her cheeks. 

"Some--are going out!" she thought, "and others, like me, must go on. And here we all are with walls between, but our doors open to:

 "He weaves the shining garments Unceasingly and still Along the quiet waters In niches of the hills. "

The words seemed to paint, in the narrow room, the dim Gap. The sound ofthe river was in Joan's ears and she knew that the niches of the safehills where her loved ones waited, were full of the spring blossoms. 

 No leaf that dawns to petal, But hints the Angel-plan. 

Joan looked up and saw Cameron at the doorway. He almost filled it, andhis eyes grew troubled as he noted the thin, white, tear-wet face. 

"Shall I close the door?" he asked. 

"No. Please do not. I like to think that all the others, down thecorridor, and I are together--listening, growing better!"

"Oh! I see. " Cameron tossed aside his coat and sat down. 

"I--I don't think you do, " Joan smiled at him; "I think I puzzle youterribly, but some day I am going to explain everything. All my life Ihave been, as I am now, in a narrow little room--peeping out and nevertouching others any more than I am touching"--she pointed to the rightand left--"my neighbours, here. But we were all listening to much thesame thing then as now. 

"I am going"--here Joan dashed her tears off--"I am going somehow topull the walls down and know really!"

"Bully!" Cameron had a peculiar feeling in his throat. Then added: "Icut something out of a paper the other day that seemed to me to hold allthe philosophy necessary for this tug-of-war we call life. Here it is!"

"Read it, please, " Joan dropped her eyes. 

 "A shipwrecked sailor, buried here, bids you set sail. Full many a gallant bark, when he was lost, weathered the gale. "

"Isn't that good, gripping stuff? I've caught the sense of it, and whenI get to thinking--well, of such as lie in many of these little rooms, I'm glad--you're--setting sail!"

"Thank you, Doctor Cameron. I am setting sail! I thought I was before--Isee the difference now. And to-morrow----"

"And to-morrow--where are you going--to-morrow?"

Cameron was ill at ease. 

"To a little hotel--I will give you the address in the morning. It isfrom there that I will set sail. "

CHAPTER XXIII

"_No one can travel that road for you, you must travel it foryourself. _"

David Martin came into the living room of Ridge House bringing, as itseemed, the Spring with him. He left the door open and sat down. He wasin rough clothes; he was brown and rugged. He was building, with his ownhands, much of the cabin at Blowing Rock. He had never been more contentin his life. He often paused, as he was now doing, and thought of it. 

The hard winter's work was over and Martin felt the spring in his bloodas he had not felt it in many a year. 

Things were going to suit him--and they had had a way of eluding him inthe past. Perhaps, he thought, because he had always wanted them justhis way. 

Somewhere, above stairs, Doris was singing, and Nancy from another partof the house was calling out little joyous remarks. 

"Two telegrams in one day, Aunt Doris. Such riches!"

Doris paused in her song long enough to reply:

"Joan may come any day, Nan, dear. It is so like her to act, once shedecides. "

Martin, sitting by the hearth, reflected upon the injustice of ProdigalSons and Daughters--but he smiled. 

"They don't deserve it--but it's damnably true that they get it, " hemused, irrelevantly. 

"Joan's room is a dream, Nan, come and see it!" called Doris, and Nancycould be heard running and laughing to inspect the Prodigal's quarters. 

"It looks divine!" she ejaculated. "Push that pink dogwood back alittle, Aunt Dorrie--make it like a frame around the mirror for thedear's face. "

"How's that, Nan?"

"Exactly--right. Aunt Dorrie?"

"Yes, my dear girl. "

"I have the dearest plan--I feel that Ken would love it, but I hate tobe the one to propose it. "

From his armchair Martin smiled more broadly. 

"Perhaps I can do it for you, Nan. " Doris spoke abstractedly--she was, apparently, giving more thought to the decorations for the returningwanderer than to the plans of the good child who had remained at herpost. 

"Well, Aunt Doris, I don't want to wait until next winter to be married. Ken writes that he will have Mrs. Tweksbury safely settled in New Yorkby the first of June----" Emily Tweksbury had fled the influenza andgone to Bermuda only to fall victim to pneumonia. Kenneth Raymond hadbeen summoned, to what was supposed to be her death-bed, but which sheindignantly refused to accept as such. 

"When women are as old as I, Ken, " she had whispered as he bent overher, "they consign them to death-beds too easily. Give me a month, boy, and I'll go back with you. "

Kenneth had given her a month, then two weeks extra; he was bringing herback now--a frail old woman, but one in whose heart the determination tolive was yet strong. 

"But, darling, we'd have to give up the beautiful wedding--Mrs. Tweksbury could never stand the excitement now, or even this summer. "

Doris's voice was more suggestive of attention as she now spoke. Martinwaited. 

"I know, Aunt Dorrie, but I am sure she would rather have me and Kenmarried than come to our wedding. Listen, duckie! Suppose, after Joancomes, we plan the dearest little service in the Chapel--I'm sure wecould snatch Father Noble as he flits by. There would be you and UncleDavid and Joan, and perhaps Clive could wrench himself away, and Maryand Uncle Jed--and, " a tender pause, "and--Ken and me! We could make theChapel beautiful with flowers from The Gap--our flowers--and then Icould help Ken with Mrs. Tweksbury--for you, Aunt Dorrie, will haveJoan. "

Martin blinked his eyes. He never admitted a mistiness to the extent ofwiping them. He listened for Doris's next words. 

"Childie, it sounds enticing and just like you. I will talk it over withUncle David. "

The voices upstairs fell into a silence and Martin got up and paced theroom. 

A few minutes later Doris came down the stairs and, singing softly, entered the living room. 

There was welcome in her eyes; the languor and helpless expression hadfaded from her face. 

"Davey, " she said, "I felt the draught--you have left the door open--Iknew you were here. 

"Oh! Davey, to-day the twenty-year limit seems quite the possible thing. My dear, my dear, Joan is coming home!"

Martin met Doris midway of the big room. He was startled at the changein her. 

"I heard that a telegram had come. It's great news, Doris. "

"Queer, isn't it, Davey, how one can brace and bear a good deal whilethere is the necessity, and then realize the strain only when the needis past? Joan says only 'coming home, ' but I know as surely as I everknew anything that it has been for the best and she is coming gladly tome--coming home! I could not have endured the silence much longer. "

Martin put his arm around Doris and led her to the hearth. A mild littlefire was crackling cheerfully, rather shyly, between the tall jars ofdogwood that seemed to question the necessity of the small blaze. 

"Davey, I want to talk to you. There are so many things to say if youare absent twenty-four hours. How goes the cabin?"

"Like magic. It will be livable by June or before. The men like to haveme pothering around, and I've discovered that one never really has ahouse unless he helps build it. I'm going to get Bud down the minute Ican put a bed up. And, Doris----"

"Yes, Davey. "

"I've been eavesdropping, I've been here a half hour. I heard what Nancysaid--let the child have her wish!"

"You feel that way, David? I had hoped to have everything rathersplendid--to make up for what I could not do for--Merry. "

"All stuff and nonsense! Give the girl her head. She knows her path andwill not make mistakes. What she wants is Raymond and her own life. Nancy is simple and direct; no complications about her. Don't make anyfor her. "

"David, her happiness and peace almost frighten me. You remember how shedrooped last summer? Taking her to New York has done more than give herlove and happiness. She is quite another girl, so resourceful and clearvisioned. "

"She's on her own trail, Doris, that's all. Things are right with Nancy. The rule holds. "

"But, David, I have not told her yet----"

"Told her?--oh! I see--about the birth mix-up?"

Martin smiled--he always did when the subject was referred to. Thehumour and daring of it had never lost their zest. 

"It is no laughing matter, Davey; as the time draws near when I musttell I am in a kind of panic. I always thought it would be easy; if ithad been right why should I know this fear?"

Martin was serious enough now. He folded his arms and leaned back in hischair--he held Doris with his calm gray eyes. 

"It seems to me, " he spoke thoughtfully, "that you should stand by yourguns. You did what you did from the highest motives; you have succeededmarvellously--why upset the kettle of fish, my dear?"

Doris's face softened. 

"I think if I had committed murder, " she said, "you would try to defendthe deed. "

"I certainly would!"

They smiled into each other's eyes at this. 

"But, David, I am afraid to tell Nancy. Somehow I think the doubt wouldhurt her more cruelly than the real truth might have. It has always beenthe not knowing that mattered to Nan--unless what was to be known was ahappy thing. Merry was like that, you remember. "

"Then why run a risk with Nancy, Doris?"

Martin had the look in his eyes with which he scanned the face of apatient who could not be depended upon to describe his own symptoms. 

"I--think--Ken should know. "

"What?"

"Why--why--what there is to know!"

"Just muddle him. Nancy would be the same girl, but he'd get to puzzlingover her and tagging ideas on her--and to what end, Doris? The girl hasthe right to her own path and you have, by the grace of God, pushedobstacles from before her, in heaven's name give her fair play anddon't--flax out at this stage of the game. "

"But, Davey, if in the future anything should disclose the truth, mightKen not resent?"

"I don't see why he should. When the hour struck you could call him intothe family circle and share the news. By that time he'd feel secure inhis own right about Nancy. "

"I'm not afraid of, or for, Joan, Davey. " Doris lifted her head proudly. "And, David, I want to tell you now that my coming to The Gap was moreon the children's account than my own. I have always felt that here, ifanywhere, the truth might be exposed. At first I was anxious; fearfulyet hopeful. I know now that The Gap has no suspicions, and I am moreand more confident that George Thornton has passed from our lives. "

"Very good!" Martin sat up and bent forward in order to take Doris'shands in his own. 

"My dear, " he said, gently, "have you never thought that--Nancy is--yourown?"

"Yes, Davey, I have grown to believe it. She is very like Meredith--notin looks, but in her character and habits. She is stronger, happier thanMerry, and oh! Davey, for that very reason I hesitate to touch thebeautiful faith and love of the child. I do not want her disillusioned. It would kill her as it did Merry. "

"Then, again I caution against risks, especially when the odds are withNancy, not against her. "

The fire burned low--a mere twinkle in the white ashes, then David askedas one does ask a useless question:

"Are those words over the fireplace, Doris?" He puckered hisnear-sighted eyes. 

"I think so. There are carvings and paintings everywhere through thehouse. One of the Sisters did them. This one is so blackened by smokethat it is all but destroyed--some day I will see what can be done torestore it. "

"I like the idea, " Martin said. "I mean to have something over myfireplace. It sort of strikes one in the face. "

Presently Doris spoke, going back past the interruption:

"Davey, the wonderful thing to me is that while believing Nancy to beMerry's child I find my heart clinging passionately to Joan. I know howyou disapprove of her--but I glory in her. Through this anxious time Ihave been able to follow her, understand her better, even, than I haveNan. Joan has often seemed like--well, like myself set free. I mighthave been like Joan in many ways. And, Davey, this could not havehappened had I known the real truth concerning the girls. "

"No, I do not think it could. And it goes to prove my theory that twothirds of the inherited traits are common to us all. The whole businesslies in the handling of them by the one third that does come down theline. The thing we know as the ancient law of inheritance. Doris, takemy advice and keep your hands off. "

"Oh! Davey. To keep my hands off is so easy that it doesn't seem safe orright. "

David smiled, then said:

"There are times, Doris, when I fear that you should be taken by theroots and--transplanted. The old soil is used up. "

"I--I do not understand, David. "

"Don't try! Come, now, I want you to take a rest. Go on the porch in thesun, I'll wrap you warm. I'm going to take Nancy over to the cabin forlunch and plan her wedding with her. This afternoon you and I are goingfor a drive--the roads have settled somewhat and I want your adviceabout things to put in my garden. "

As he spoke Martin was leading Doris to the piazza, gathering rugs andpillows in one arm as he went. 

"I am so happy, David, so unspeakably happy. " Doris sank into herpillows and smiled up at the face bending over her. "It's beautiful, allthis care and love, and I have a feeling that I will be able, soon, toreally live. I have had so much without paying the price. "

"And you'd mess it all, would you, Doris, when you don't know what theprice is?"

"No, David, I wouldn't. "

Martin walked into the house and whistled to Nancy. She responded, sodid the hounds and a new litter of long-eared pups. 

Doris, with closed eyes, smiled and then she thought. She, too, wasplanning for Nancy's wedding--she saw the small altar in the Chapelflower-decked; they must have some music, perhaps Joan would sing one ofher lovely, quaint songs--and then Doris slept while the sun lay on herpeaceful face and the sound of the busy river soothed her. 

 * * * * *

It was like Joan to do exactly what she did. 

After two deplorable days in the little hotel--days devoted tocollecting her belongings and eating and sleeping--she suddenly foundherself so strong that she sent the telegram to The Gap. 

Having sent it, she meant to prepare carefully against shock at herappearance by buying a rather giddy hat and coat to offset her shorthair and thin body. Cameron had insisted, at the last, that she reserveher cash for emergencies and repay him later. 

Joan accepted this solution, and having arrayed herself frivolously shebought Cuff a most remarkable collar which embarrassed the dogconsiderably. In all the changing events of Cuff's life a collar had notfigured, and it was harder to adjust himself to it than to foots of bedsand meals served on plates. However, Cuff rose to the emergency and borehimself with credit. 

Twice Cameron came to the hotel; twice he took Joan for a drive--"Itwill help you get on your feet, " he explained. 

"I--I don't quite see how, " she faltered and, as they were driving whereonce she and Raymond had driven, her eyes were tear-filled. The old, dangerous, foolish past had a most depressing effect upon her. 

At Cameron's second attempt to put her on her feet he succeeded, forwhen he paid his third call, a quaint little note greeted him at theoffice:

 Thank you--thank you for all that you have done. I will explain everything soon, in the meantime, morally and physically, I am wobbling home. 

Cameron's jaw set as he read. 

"I'll wait, " was what he inwardly swore. And at that moment he wasconscious that, for the first time in his career, a woman had got intohis system!

When Joan reached Stone Hedgeton she feared that she and Cuff would haveto overcome many obstacles before they reached The Gap, for no one waswilling to travel the roads. 

"There is holes in the river road mighty nigh a yard deep, " one manconfided. "I ain't going to risk my hoss, nor my mule, nuther!"

It was the mail man who, at last, solved the problem. He had a small carwhose appearance was disreputable but whose record was marvellous. 

"If you-all, " he included Cuff in the general remark, "ain't sot 'boutreaching The Gap at any 'pinted time, I'll scrooge you in. There's acouple of stops to make, and I reckon I'll have to dig us-all out ofholes now and then--that shovel ain't in yo' way, is it, Miss?" heasked. 

For Joan and Cuff were already among the mail bags and merchandise. 

"Nothing is in the way!" Joan replied, "and I'll help you dig us out. "

It was just daylight when they started. 

It was past noon when, stiff and rather shaken, Joan scrambled out ofthe old car and, followed by Cuff, noiselessly made her way over thelawn to Ridge House. 

She went lightly up the steps, then stood still. Doris Fletcher laysleeping in the full, warm glow. So quiet was she, so pale and delicate, that for a moment Joan knew a fear that had had its beginning whenPatricia passed from life. 

The awful uncertainty, the narrow pass over which all travel, were newlyrealized perils to Joan, and her breath came sharp and quick. 

So this was what had happened while she was learning her lessons! Shehad not learned alone. 

"Oh! Aunt Dorrie, " she murmured. "You and I have paid and paid--but younever held me back!"

Joan sat down and waited. It was always to be so with her from now on. In that hour a great and tender patience was born that was to calm andguide her future life. She was given, then and there, to draw upon thestrength and vision that do not err. And it may have been that in sleepDoris Fletcher, too, was prepared, for when suddenly she opened her eyesupon Joan she was not startled: a gladness that was almost painfuloverspread her face. 

"My darling! You have come at last!" was what she said. 

And, as on that night when she had come to plead for freedom, Joan didnot, now, rush into human touch. She nodded and whispered:

"I've come as I promised to, Aunt Dorrie. It--it wasn't my chance! Notmy big chance, anyhow, but I had to find out, dearie. "

"My little girl!"

Joan went nearer; she bent and kissed again and again that radiant face;then, sitting on the floor by the couch, with Cuff huddled close, shetouched lightly the high peaks that lay between the parting and thishome-coming, but Doris, with that deep understanding, followedlaboriously, silently, through the dark valleys. 

"I'm rather battered and cropped, Aunt Dorrie--but here I am!"

With this Joan tossed off her hat and voluminous coat. 

"Your--hair, Joan? Your beautiful hair!"

"I have been very sick, Aunt Dorrie, my hair and my fat had to go--justenough bones left to hold my soul. But I'm all right now. "

"Don't be sorry for me, " Joan was pleading, "I'm the gladdest thingalive to-day. I've dropped all the old husks; I've found out just whatthey are worth, but some of them that seem like husks, dear, arenot--I've learned that, too. "

"Yes, Joan--and now go on, in just your own way. For a little while Ihave you to myself. Nancy will take lunch at Uncle David's newbungalow. "

There was a good deal of explanation necessary in dealing with Sylvia'spart in the past--Doris had banked on Sylvia. The tea room was easier, but Joan slipped over that experience so glibly that Doris made a mentalreservation concerning it. 

Patricia was the critical test. At the mention of her name Cuff whinedpathetically, and Joan bent and gathered him in her arms. 

"I--I can't talk much about Pat, dearie, not now"; Joan bent her head;"she was so wonderful. Just a beautiful, lost spirit in theworld--trying to find its way home. There was only one way for Pat--Ishall always be glad that I could go part of it with her. "

"Yes, yes--I am glad, too!" Doris whispered, for she had caught up withJoan now. She did not know all that lay in the valleys--but she felt thechill and darkness through which her child had come up to the light. Strange as it might seem, she was thinking of that time, long ago, whenshe had escaped from the Park and had touched life in the open. 

The hospital experience Joan could describe with a touch of humour thateventually brought a smile to Doris's face. She took for granted that ithad been in Chicago, and when Joan told of flitting away from the youngdoctor who had saved her, Doris laughingly said:

"Joan, that was cruel. You should have explained. "

"No, Aunt Dorrie, it was wise. Of course I'm going to explain to him andsend him the money, but I wanted to shut the door on my silly pastfirst. I shall only let in, hereafter, that part of it that I choose. When I saw a man looking at me, Aunt Dorrie, where before I had beenseeing a doctor, there was nothing to do but scamper. He hadn't theleast idea what was happening--he saw only the bag of bones that he hadrescued, but I wasn't going to let him run any risks. You see, I'velearned more than some girls. "

And then Joan, mentally, turned her back on the past. With that powershe had for holding to the thing she desired, the thing she wanted tomake true, she laughed her merry, carefree laugh--she recalled only thejoyous, amusing incidents and she watched with hungry, loving eyes theeffect she was creating. 

It was while this was going on that Mary came upon the piazza toannounce luncheon. There were days when no one saw Mary, when her cabinwas closed and locked; but after such absences she came to Ridge Houseand worked with a fervour that flavoured of apology. 

She gazed long upon Joan before she spoke. It was not surprise sheshowed, but a slow understanding. 

"Miss Joan, " she said at last, "seems like you ain't got the world bythe tail like you uster have. "

Joan threw her head back and laughed. 

"No, Mary, " she presently replied, "it swung so fast that I felloff--but I'll catch hold soon. "

The quiet little luncheon in the quaint dining room did much to restorethe long-past relations of Joan with the family. Uncle Jed came in andchuckled with delight. The old man lived mostly in the past now, andfollowed Mary like a poor crumpled shadow. What held the two togetherwas difficult to understand--but it was the kinship of the hills, thestolid sense of familiarity. 

After the meal was over Joan wandered about through the living rooms fora few moments, touching Nancy's loom, but speaking seldom of Nancy. 

"I want to hear all about it from her, " she explained; and Doris, withJoan's affairs chiefly in her thought, referred merely to Nancy'shappiness, their perfect sympathy with it; and if Kenneth's name wasmentioned, Joan did not notice it. 

At last she went up to her room to rest. 

"Quite as if I had never been away, Aunt Doris, " she said, "and youdon't mind if I take Cuff? The poor little chap has had so many changesthat I fear for his nerves!"

Joan went upstairs to the west wing chamber singing a gay littlesong--her own voice seemed to hold her to the safe, happy present--soshe sang. 

She paused at the door of her room to read the words carved there longago by Sister Constance:

 =And the Hills Shall Bring Peace=

It was like someone speaking a welcome. 

"Oh! it is all so dear, " Joan murmured, "how could it ever have seemeddull!"

Flowers filled the vases, and there was a small, fragrant fire on thehearth--a mere thing of beauty, there was no need of it, for the windowswere open to the gentle spring day. 

Joan slipped into a loose gown and then stood in the middle of the roomleisurely taking in the comfort and joy of every proof of love that shesaw. 

On the desk by the window lay a pile of unopened letters--she took themup. They were the letters from Doris and Nancy which had been returnedfrom Chicago. Pitiful things that had been so hopefully sent forth onlyto come back like blighted hopes!

For a moment Joan contemplated throwing them all on the fire. She didnot feel equal to re-living the past. It was only by laughing andsinging that she could hold her own. 

But on second thought she opened the first one--it was from Nancy. 

"I better have all I can get to begin on, " she reflected; "it will savetime. "

She sat down in a deep chair and presently she was aware of combatingsomething that was being impressed upon her; she was not conscious ofreading it. 

"Such things do not happen--not in life----" her sane, cautious selfseemed to say. For a second Joan believed her tired brain was playingher false as it had during those awful weeks in the hospital. She closedher eyes; grew calm--then tried again:

 Since you are not coming to see Ken now, Joan, I will try to describe him. You remember old Mrs. Tweksbury? Well, my dear boy belongs, in a way, to her----

Again Joan closed her eyes while a faintness saved her from too acuteshock. She felt the soft air upon her face; she was conscious of thatbewildered whine of poor Cuff. Vaguely she thought that he must behungry; thirsty--then there was a moment's blank and--the sickeningweakness was gone!

With the strength and clarity that sometimes comes at a critical momentJoan's mind worked fast and carried her where hours of quiet thoughtcould not have done. 

It was natural, of course, that Nancy should meet Raymond--the mostnatural thing in the world. 

His loving her--so soon after what had happened! That was the thing thatgripped and hurt. Joan tried to connect the date of that night in thestudio and the one on Nancy's letter. She seemed powerless to do so--thetime between was a blank; there was no time! Everything belonged to aprevious incarnation. 

With a shudder, Joan presently realized the insignificant part she hadborne in Kenneth Raymond's life. 

The humiliation turned her hot and cold. He had always held but oneopinion of her; his loss of self-control had simply torn down thedefences behind which he had played with her, amused himself with her, during the dull summer. 

She was, to him, one of the women not to be considered, while Nancywas--the other kind!

Joan regarded, as she never had before, the freedom and safety of suchgirls as Nancy. She could realize the pressure, the favouringenvironment that surrounded so desirable a thing as this coming togetherof Raymond and Nancy!

She knew how the same force could blot such as she was supposed to befrom the inner circle! How little they counted!

Oh! the bitterness of the knowledge that it was such girls asPatricia--as Raymond believed her--who were not free; who must snatchwhat they can from life and not resent what goes with it. They must--notcare! Outside the code there was no real freedom--because there was nochoice! It was a place of chains and bars compared to the other. 

The waves of humiliation and shame swept over Joan, but each time sheemerged she held her head higher. 

"And he left me--to go my way and he went--to Nancy! He did not care!"It was anger now; proud, life-saving anger. "If he had only cared!"

"And why--should he?" The thought was like a dash of cold water in herface. 

After all, why should he? It _was_ only play until that awful night!That was the revealing hour of real danger. 

Clutching her hands, Joan went over every step of the way upon whichRaymond had gone with her. 

It had all been a mad escapade in that time of mistaken freedom. He andshe had both been brought to the realization of the folly by a blow thathad awakened them, not stunned them. They had been forced to acknowledgethe danger hidden in themselves. It was in such whirlpools many werelost, but they----

And at this point Joan recalled, as if he were before her now, the lookin Raymond's face when he gained control of himself!

Always, since that night, Joan had felt, when thinking of Raymond, thatshe never wanted to see him again. She knew that he had never held anyreal part in her life and he would always hold her back, as she mighthim--from proving the best that was in each other if they came intocontact. 

With this conclusion reached Joan had gained a secure footing. As a man, detached from herself and her past, she knew that Raymond was worthy oflove and happiness, just as, in her heart, she knew that she herselfwas. But could others understand? Others, like Nancy?

While she had been buffeted on a rough sea, since that stormy night inthe studio, Raymond had drifted into his safe harbour, sooner. There wasnothing to hold him back--and here Joan began to sob in self-pity; inpity for all girls, like Patricia and her, who were so lightlyconsidered. 

"We do not matter!" she murmured. Then she dashed her tears away. "Butwe _must_ matter!"

She sprang up. She flung the letters upon the embers; she gathered Cuffto her bosom and--laughed!

It was her old, old laugh. The laugh that held in its depth, not scornof life, but an appreciation of it. 

"It's how we take it all, Cuff, my dear, just how we take it! And, Cuff"--here Joan held the little animal off at arms' length and lookedinto his deep, serious eyes--"I'm going to get the world by the tailagain--_you watch me!_"

CHAPTER XXIV

"_O, friend never strike sail to a fear. _"

Because the woman in Joan had not been hurt by her experiences, becauseit was only the wildness of youth that had carried her to the verge ofmaking mistakes and then sent her reeling back, she reacted quickly. Shewas no longer the reckless, heedless Joan--the change made Martin frown. He put full value on her cropped hair and thin body--he had grappledwith the scourge, and he knew!

He presently found himself in friendly sympathy with this new, patient, tender Joan--they had much to say to each other. 

Nancy was not so keen about the change. Joan had come back--Joan wasputting into life all that it lacked. This was enough for Nancy! Thespring days were dreams of bliss and she radiated joy. 

"Ken will adore you, Joan!" she confided. "You see, he has a twistedidea about you just because you weren't with us all, but when he seesyou, darling, he'll be on his knees before you as we all are!"

"I'd love to get my first view of him in that attitude, " Joan laughinglyreplied, "but on the whole, I'd rather take him standing. "

During those waiting days, until Raymond came to marry Nancy, RidgeHouse quivered with excited preparation. 

"Of course!" Joan had agreed to the quiet wedding idea, "we must have itas Nancy wishes, but it must be perfect. "

So Joan sewed and designed--some of Patricia's gift was hers--and oftenher face fell into pensive lines as she worked, for she seemed to seePatricia as she used to sit, well into the night, planning and evolvingthe dainty garments that others were to wear. 

"My turn!" Joan comforted herself with the thought; "my turn now, dearPat. "

And then the day came when Kenneth Raymond was to arrive. Mrs. Tweksburycould be safely left in New York. She was resigned to the wedding butdeplored the necessity of being absent. 

"I know something will go wrong, " she said to Kenneth; "do be carefuland make sure that you are really married, Ken! They are so sloppy inthe South, and it would be quite like Doris Fletcher, if she couldn'tget that candlestick preacher of hers, to let Dave Martin or any oneelse read the service. Doris never could put the emphasis of life whereit belonged. "

Kenneth laughed merrily. 

"Nancy and I will see to it, Aunt Emily, " he replied, "that we are tiedup close. Just use your time, until I bring her back, in thinking of thegood days on ahead--when we'll have her always, you and I. "

Mrs. Tweksbury relaxed. 

"She's a blessed child, Ken. She always was. "

Raymond arrived late one May afternoon. Joan was dressing for dinner, dressing slowly, tremblingly--she did not mean to go downstairs untildinner was served if she could avoid it. 

She had worked late, worked until she was weary enough to plead anhour's rest, and now she stood by the window overlooking The Gap. 

"I've got the world in my grip, " she thought, "but the whirl makes medizzy. "

Silver River was rushing along rather noisily--there had been a bigstorm the night before and the water had not yet calmed down; the rocksshone in the last rays of the sun, and just then Joan looked up at TheRock!

There it was--The Ship! Sails set and the western light full upon it. 

For a moment Joan gazed, trying to remember the old superstition. Thenher face grew tender. 

"Whatever happens, " she murmured, "it shall not happen to Nancy. I'vespoiled enough of her plays--she shall not be hurt now. "

The thought held all the essentials of a prayer and it gave an uplift. 

Then Joan turned to her toilet. Recalling Patricia's theory about theartistic helps to one's appearance, she worked fervently with her slimlittle body and delicate face. 

A bit of fluffing and the lovely hair rose like an aura about thesmiling face. The eyes did not seem too large when one smiled--so Joanpractised a smile! The gowns, one by one, were laid out upon the bed andregarded religiously; finally, one was chosen that Patricia had loved. 

"My lamb, " Joan recalled the words and look, "a true artist knows herhigh marks. This gown is a revealment of my genius. "

It was a pale blue cr�pe, silver-touched and graceful; a long, heavy, silver cord held it at the waistline, and the loose, lacy sleeves madethe slim arms look very lovely. 

"If ever I needed bucking, Pat, dear, I need it now!" whispered Joan, and her eyes dimmed. 

She heard the pleasant bustle below; the light laughter, the cheerycalls. She heard Raymond's voice when he greeted Nancy--it startled herby its familiarity and its strangeness. 

"He sounds as if he were in church, " mused Joan. She felt as the old doas they re-live their youth. 

There was candlelight in the dining room when Joan entered. The familywere all assembled, for Doris had sent for Joan only at the last moment. 

"Ken, dear, this is Joan. "

Nancy said it as if she were flouting all the foolish things any one hadever felt about Joan. Pride, deep affection, rang in her voice. "This isJoan!"

Joan went slowly, smilingly forward. She saw Raymond's knuckles growwhite and hard as his hands gripped the back of his chair. His eyesdilated, and for a moment he could not speak. Finally he managed:

"So this--is Joan!" and went forward to greet her. 

"I reckon they will all get this shock, " thought Doris; "what they havethought about the child ought to shame them. Emily Tweksbury was alwaysa snob. "

Martin, from under his shaggy brows, watched the scene curiously. He, like everyone else, was, unconsciously, on guard where Nancy wasconcerned. This frank surprise was gratifying for Joan, but it placedNancy, for a moment, to one side. 

Joan had never looked lovelier; never more self-controlled. She washolding herself, and Raymond, too, by firm will power. He must notbetray anything--he owed her and Nancy that! There was no wrong. Nosuggestion of it must enter in. 

In another moment the danger was over; the colour rose to Raymond'sface. 

"I--I hadn't expected anything quite so--splendid, " he said. 

"You are very kind, " Joan had her hands in his, now; "you see--I've beenwandering in strange places; I am rather an outlaw and the best any onecould do for me was to wait and let me speak for myself. I'm glad youapprove!"

"I certainly do!" Raymond said, and gratefully joined the circle as itsat down. 

As the time passed the situation caught Joan's feverish imagination; shedared much; she was cruel but fascinating. She proposed, after dinner, to read palms--explaining that she and Pat had learned the tricks. 

At the name of "Pat" Raymond's grave eyes fixed themselves upon her. Joan saw the firm lips draw together, and she paused in her gaiety, sensing something she did not quite understand. 

In the living room by the fire Joan again grew witchy. She insisted uponproving her cleverness at palm-reading. Raymond dared not refuse, but heshowed plain disapproval. 

"It's rot!" Martin broke in, "but here goes, Joan!" And spread hishonest hand upon the altar. 

Joan had a good field now for her wit, and she set the company in amerry mood. When she touched upon Martin's nephew, which, of course, shewickedly did, she made an impression. 

"See here, " Martin broke in, "this isn't palm-reading, you littlefraud--you're trying to be funny trading on what you've heard butcouldn't know for yourself. "

"That's part of the trick, Uncle David. Now, Nan, dear, let me have thatsmall paw of yours. "

Frankly Nancy extended the left hand upon which glittered Raymond'sdiamond. 

"The right one, too, Nan darling! What dear, soft, pink things!" Joanbent and kissed them. "Such happy hands; good, true hands. Everyline--unbroken. Running from start to finish--as it should run. "

"A stupid pair of hands, I call them. " Nancy puckered her lips. 

"They are blessed hands, Nan. "

Raymond went behind Nancy's chair and fixed his eyes upon Joan--he wasalmost pleading with her to have done with the dangerous play. 

"Aunt Dorrie?" Joan turned to her, ignoring Raymond. 

"My hands can tell you nothing, Joan, dear, " Doris said; "I've been acoward. See, my hands are flabby inside--the hands of a woman who hashad much too easy a time. 'Who has reached forth--but never grasped. '"

At this Martin came and stood over Doris. Joan looked up and suddenlyher eyes dimmed. She seemed alone. Alone among them all. There was noone beside her--they seemed, Martin and Raymond, to be defending theirloved ones from her. 

"And now, my brother Ken!" The words were like a call. 

"Oh, let me off!" Raymond tried to speak lightly. 

"No, indeed! The safety of my family is at stake!"

Raymond was inwardly angry, but he sat down and defiantly spread hishands. 

Joan regarded them silently for a dramatic moment, then she quietlyopened her own. 

"Isn't this odd, " she said, "there is a line in your hand andmine--alike!"

Every eye was fixed on the four hands. 

"Right here----" Joan traced it. 

"What does it mean?" Martin asked. 

"Capacity for friendship; that we are rather daring; not afraid of manythings--but canny enough to know----"

"What, Joan?--out with it!" It was Doris who spoke. 

"Canny enough--to distrust ourselves once in awhile. "

Martin gave a guffaw. 

"Joan, " he said, "you ought to be sent to bed. Your eyes are too big andyour colour too high. Stop this foolishness and let us take a turn onthe river road. The moonlight is filling it--it's too rare to beoverlooked. "

So they went out, keeping together and talking happily until it was timeto return to the house; there, Raymond managed to say to Joan, just asthey were parting:

"This has been rather a shock, you know, I wish I could see youalone--for a moment. "

She looked up at him, and all the mad daring was gone from her eyes. 

"Is there anything to say?" she whispered. "Now or--ever?"

"Yes. "

And Raymond knew that Joan would come back. 

He sat on the broad porch, opening to The Gap, and smoked. The housegrew still with that holy quietness that holds all love safe. 

Then came a slight noise; someone was coming!

It was significant that Raymond should know at once who it was. All thelove and yearning in the world would not have drawn Nancy through thesleeping house to him. The knowledge made him smile grimly, happily. 

Doris, once having said good-night, meant it, and Martin had gone to hisbungalow. 

"Well--here I am. " Joan appeared and sat down, looking as if she weredoing the most commonplace thing in life. It was the old daring that hadled to dangerous ways. 

"Is it--safe?"

"Why not?" It was the same frank, childlike look. 

"But--Nancy; your Aunt----"

Joan twisted her mouth humorously. 

"We'll have to risk them--you said you had something to say. "

"Joan! Good Lord! but it's great to have a name to call you by--youdrove me pretty hard to-night. I make no complaint--except----" Hepaused. 

"For Nancy?" Joan asked. 

"Yes! Joan, she's wonderful. She's the sort that makes a man ratherafraid until he realizes that he means to keep her as she is--forever. "This was spoken with a definiteness of purpose that made Joan recoil. Again he was defending Nancy from what he had believed Joan to havebeen!

"I wonder"--she looked away--"I wonder if any one could do that? Or ifit would be wise if he could?"

"Joan, when I saw you to-night, after the shock--I could have fallen onmy knees in gratitude--there have been hours when the fear I had aboutyou nearly drove me crazy; made me feel I had no right--to Nancy. "

"So you--did remember, for a little time?"

"Yes. I went to the Brier Bush--Miss Gordon gave me to understand thatyou had gone away with someone--married, she thought. 

"Joan--who was--Pat?"

For a moment Joan could not understand, then, as was the way with her, the whole truth flooded in. 

Raymond had taken thought for her--Elspeth had deceived him--oh! howhard Elspeth could be. Joan recalled scenes behind closed doors whenElspeth Gordon dealt with her assistants!

"And when you thought--I had--gone away--you felt free?" Joan's facequivered. Raymond nodded. How easy it was to talk to Joan. How quick shewas to comprehend and help one over a hard stretch!

"Joan--who was Pat?" That seemed to be the vital thing now. And thenJoan told him. As she spoke in low, trembling tones, she saw his headbow in his hands; she knew that he was suffering with her, for her; asgood men do for their women. Joan was conscious of this attitude ofRaymond's--she was reinstated; fixed, at last, where she could beunderstood: she belonged to his world!

"Poor little girl! After the beast in me dashed your card house to atomsyou made another try--alone!" Raymond raised his face. 

"No--I had Pat. " At that instant Patricia symbolized the link betweenthe unreal and the real. 

"Yes, for a little while--but, Joan, it didn't pay--the danger you ranand all that--did it? Such girls as you cannot afford such experiences. "

"Yes. Having had Pat, I am able to see--wider. "

Joan was thinking of the girls whom Raymond could _not_ have understoodor sympathized with! Girls such as she might so easily have beenlike--unless---- Unless what?

"Joan, you and I always said we could speak plain truth, didn't we?"Kenneth's words brought her back. 

"Of course!"

"Well, " Raymond dropped his eyes and flushed, "you really didn'tcare--not in the one, particular way, did you? It was only play; youmeant that?"

"It was only play, Ken. The suffering came because we did not know whatwe were playing with. It's the not knowing that matters. "

"Joan, you have seen the worst in me----?"

"Yes, and the best, Ken. It was like seeing you come back fromhell--unharmed. "

"Do you think I should tell Nancy? Put her on her guard? There _is_something in me----"

At this Joan leaned forward with a new light on her face--it was thematernal taking shape. 

"No, Ken, you must _not_ tell Nan. With her it is the _not_ knowing thatmatters. She must be guarded; not put on guard. I know now that Nan willbe safe with you; I wasn't sure before; but if you raised a doubt inher mind all would go wrong. She was always like that. "

"But----" for a moment a beaten terror rose in Raymond's eyes. 

Joan nodded bravely to him. 

"You and I, Ken, must never give fear a chance. Once we know, we mustnot turn back. "

She stood up, looking tall and commanding. 

Raymond rose also and took her hands. 

"You're great, Joan, " he said, "simply great. You understand--though howyou do, the Lord only knows. 

"Joan!" Raymond flung out the question that was tormenting him. "Joan, why didn't we--care the other way?"

"I think, " Joan looked ancient, but pathetically young, "I think men andwomen don't, when they understand too well. And the line in our handsexplains that, perhaps, " she smiled wanly. "You see, Miss Jones and Mr. Black are--paying!"

"Joan, go now, dear. Others might not understand. " Raymond at thatmoment grimly shut the door on his one playtime!

"And you--would hate to have them misunderstand about me--for Nancy'ssake?"

"No, Joan, for your own. You're too big and fine--to have any morehurting things knock you. May I kiss--you good-night?"

For a moment something in Joan shrank, then she raised her face. 

"Yes. Good-night--brother Ken. "

For another moment they stood silent. Then:

"What was it that made you so hard at dinner, Joan, and makes you sosweet now?"

"Ken, I thought that you--had not tried to find out about me--after thatnight!"

"Did the mere going back really matter?"

"It meant everything, Ken. "

"How?"

"Oh! can you not understand? If you had just--not cared I would havebeen afraid to-night for Nancy! Ken, I believe you went back to pay forall our folly--had I been willing to accept; had I--cared in theway--you suspected. "

"Yes, Joan. I would have. " Raymond said this solemnly. "That's what Iwent for. "

"And you should not have paid! Girls--must not--let others pay more thanis owed--I've learned that, Ken. But it was the going back that madeit--right for you to--go on. Ken, for Nancy's dear sake I am glad itwas--you and I!"

"For that I thank God!" Again Raymond bent his head. This time his lipsfell on the open palms of the hands with those lines in them--lines likehis own!

"Some day you are going to be happy, Joan. "

"I am happy now. I was never happy, really, before. You see, I wasalways looking for myself in the past; now I think I have foundmyself--rather a dilapidated self, but mine own. It's going to be veryinteresting, this getting acquainted, and"--here Joan was thinking ofthe last day in the hospital and the rooms opening to the sweetsinger--"and I'm going to touch and feel life instead of merely lookingout through my own small door. And so--good-night. "

She was gone as she had come--not stealthily, but noiselessly; notafraid, but cautious. 

CHAPTER XXV

"_This shall be thy reward--the ideal shall be real to thee. _"

Doris and Joan were in the living room of Ridge House trying to makethings look "as usual" in the pathetic way people do after a loved onehas gone forth never to return in quite the same relation. 

Doris paused by Nancy's loom and touched gently the unfinished pattern. 

"Dear little Nan, " she said; "she used to make such dreadful tangles, but she learned to do beautiful work. This is quite perfect--as far asthe child has gone. "

Joan was on her knees polishing away at the fireboard. The smoke-coveredwood with its motto she meant to restore. She looked up brightly asDoris spoke. Joan was accepting many things besides Nancy's going awayas Raymond's wife; accepting them without question, without explanation, but with perfect understanding. She understood fully about David Martinand Doris--her heart beat quick at Martin's lifelong devotion; atDoris's withholding. She understood, too, she believed, why the comingto the South had been necessary--the look in Doris's eyes was the samethat had haunted Patricia's--the look that holds the unfailing message. 

"Aunt Dorrie, Nancy is the belonging kind. No matter how many places andpeople share her she will always belong to us and the hills. She told methat before she went. She meant it, too. She'll finish the weaving quitenaturally, soon--New York is not far. "

Doris gave a soft laugh. Almost she resented the constant tone ofcomfort, Joan's attitude of authority. 

"No; it seems nearer and nearer all the time--since my strength hasreturned. We will have part of the winter in New York and Nan and Kenwill be coming here, and there is your music, Joan!" Doris assumedauthority and Joan submitted sweetly. 

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you and I will scour these hills and getacquainted with our people and have trips abroad, perhaps. It is simplysplendid--the stretch on ahead. "

The sun-lighted room was still radiant with the decorations of Nancy'swedding. Tall jars of roses woodbine and "rhoderdeners, " as old Jedcalled them, were everywhere. Nancy had only departed two days before. 

"What a charming wedding it was!" Doris mused, patting the loom; "everytime I think of it something new and unusual recurs. "

Joan rubbed away and laughed gaily. 

"Father Noble looked like a precious old saint, " she said. "I declarewhen he told about Mary I was almost afraid he'd be translated before hehad a chance to marry Nan. "

How little Joan realized that she was touching upon a mighty thing; howlittle either she or Doris were really ever to know. 

Doris came to the hearth and sat down in a deep chair, her face hadsuddenly grown serious. 

"I was thinking of that incident, " she said. 

"Joan, I have always misjudged Mary. She has always puzzled me. I havethought her hard and selfish--the people here have thought her mean. "Doris paused, and Joan looked around and remarked:

"She's a blessed trump. Nan always understood Mary better than I; Maryliked Nan the best of all, but I'm going to cultivate Mary. There issomething about her like these hidden words--it must be brought out. "

"To think of her caring for and loving that poor, deserted creature onthat lonely peak all this time!" Doris went back to the story. "FatherNoble says the trail up there is the worst on the mountain, yet Marywent every day. She mended the cabin and kept the old woman clean andclothed and happy--to the very end. Think of her alone in that cabin atnight when the poor soul passed away! Mary was always so timid, too, and superstitious--and we never suspecting!"

"And then, " Joan took up the thread, "those ten miles to get FatherNoble so that there might be a proper funeral, and Nancy's weddinghaving to wait while they saw the thing properly through. Oh! AuntDorrie, it's like a glorious old comedy with so much humanity in it thatit hurts. Can you not just _see_ that funeral as Father Noble describedit?"

Joan stood up, her eyes shining; the polishing cloth held out daintilyfrom the pretty blue gown. 

"'Twilight and evening star' effect, and those silent, amazed folks thatMary had compelled to come up the trail; the children and dogs and thatcomical boy tolling an old, cracked dinner bell; the procession to theclump of trees where the old women's children and grandchildren areburied--why, Aunt Doris, I see it all like a wonderful picture! There'sno place on earth like these hills. "

Doris saw it, too, as Joan graphically portrayed it--but she wasthinking still of Mary; she was baffled. 

"And yet, " she said, thoughtfully, "you cannot get Mary to talk aboutit, and she turned quite fiercely upon poor old Jed when he asked hissimple questions. She's hard as well as gentle. "

"And old Jed"--Joan waved her cloth--"here's to him! Think of him cryingbecause The Ship wouldn't sail off The Rock and insisting that the oldwoman on Thunder Peak had something in her arms--that ought to have goneon The Ship, not in the ground. The place and the people, Aunt Dorrie, are like a Grimm fairy tale. I'm going to have the time of my lifereading them and playing with them. "

Joan was thinking, as she often did now, of touching the lives ofothers--all others who pressed close to her. She had never been so keenor vivid before--the calls upon her were awakening the depths of hernature. She had travelled far only to come home to find Truth. 

"I am afraid I shall never be able to understand these silent, unresponsive folk, Joan. " Doris shook her head--she was realizing herown shortcomings; her incapacity for new undertakings; "they frightenme. I have always been able to make an ideal seem real, dear, but I amafraid I fail utterly when it comes to making the real seemideal--particularly when it is not lovely. "

"Well, then, duckie, just let me do the interpreting. Father Noble isgoing to take me under his big, flapping capes and speak a good word forme. "

Doris smiled. In the growing conviction that Joan had indeed come backto her she was happy and content. She rarely rebelled now. Her one greatadventure was turning out perfectly; she was thankful she had takenDavid Martin's advice and kept her secret. She had been fair; she hadmade no personal claims, but she had done what Martin had once suggestedthat all mothers should do--"point out the channel and keep the lightsburning. " There were moments when she wished that Joan were morecommunicative--but she must accept what was offered. Nancy had goneforth radiant to her chosen life and Joan had come back--not defeatedbut clearer of vision. What more could any woman ask of her children?Her children!

Doris bent and touched Joan's pretty hair. 

"I love to think of the look on Ken's face and Nancy's, " she said. 

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, it was wonderful. Your opening the window and lettingthe west light in did the trick. It was inspiration--nothing less. "

Doris nodded, recalling why she had opened the window--Meredith hadseemed nearer!

"You sang beautifully, Joan, " for Joan had sung at Nancy's request awedding hymn. "Your voice has gained a richness, dear. Next winter----"

"Yes--Aunt Dorrie!" Joan broke in nervously, then suddenly she droppedon her knees by Doris's chair and said softly:

"Aunt Dorrie, I'm going to ask some very--queer questions. You see, while I was away--I missed a lot--and I want to catch up. 

"If--if--Nan hadn't loved Ken, wouldn't you and Uncle David have wantedher to care for Clive Cameron?"

Joan felt that Nancy had garnered all that she had sown during herlearning time, and often the thought made her lonely, detached her fromthem. She believed that Cameron's absence from the wedding covered ahurt that her loved ones hid from her. 

"Yes, Joan, " Doris replied very simply, "but--we feel now that it isbest as it is. "

"Why, Aunt Dorrie?"

"I cannot explain. When you meet Clive Cameron"--Joan winced--"you willunderstand. "

"Did--did Clive Cameron--care?"

Doris laughed. 

"No. It was quite comic, Joan, the whole proceeding. Mrs. Tweksbury, Uncle David, and I played matchmakers with a vengeance--but we bungledfrightfully, and then Clive Cameron wedged his big body in between Nancyand several young men who might have made trouble, and--and--" Doristhought for an illuminating word. Then--"whistled Ken on!"

"Why, that's awfully funny, Aunt Dorrie--I rather imagined that Kenplunged!"

"No, he always felt attracted by Nancy--she was wonderfully attractiveto men, Joan, but I honestly believe it was Clive who made Ken realize. Ken is the slow, sure sort; while Clive is rather devastating, you know. He doesn't waste time or energy--when he sees his way he goes! He isvery like what his uncle was when I first knew him--only surer ofhimself. " Doris's lips trembled. 

"More bumptious, maybe!" Joan laughed. She was again in high spirits, though why she could hardly have told. 

"No, he isn't, Joan!" Doris took up cudgels for the absent Cameron. "Youmustn't get that idea. He's the most humble of fellows--but he has avision. David says he plods along after his dreams and ideals, but whenhe grips them--well, he grips! I see now how right he was about Nancyand Ken. They are suited to each other. "

"Yes--they're the carrying-on sort, Aunt Dorrie"; Joan looked wise andconfident. "They're like their kind--Nan is like you. Away back in theDondale days she used to gloat over all that went to your making, allyour grandfathers and grandmothers. She was fore-ordained to carry on, and so was Ken. They'd be done for on paths without signboards. AuntDorrie----"

"Yes, dear. "

"I wonder why it was in me to--to well, not to carry on?"

Doris bent and laid her thin, fair cheek against the short, bright hairagain. 

"Your way, little girl, " she whispered, "was to fly. You had to trywings. "

"Well, I'm a homing pigeon, I reckon. " And Joan tossed her short hairback. 

Just then there was the toot of a horn outside. 

"Uncle David!" Joan exclaimed, jumping up; "and by the manner of histoot I get an impression of exhilaration. 

"Hello, Uncle Davey!" For Martin was filling the long window with hisbig presence. 

He smiled on Joan--he did it very naturally these days. The girl wasbecoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as healways did, eagerly, gratefully. 

"Jump into your coat and hat, " he said to her with a ring in his voice;"I've just had a telegram. Bud's coming!"

"Oh! David, " Doris's face flushed rosily. "And you want me to go withyou to meet him. I _am_ glad. "

"Yes, " Martin replied. Doris was already on her way from the room. Joandropped to the hearth and resumed her rubbing. 

So the inevitable was upon her! She must not flinch! She wondered ifthis was the last dropped stitch she must take up?

"Want me to go, too, Uncle David?" she asked, keeping her back rigid. 

"No, " Martin was regarding the straight set shoulders and the prettycropped hair. "No! You have too shocking an effect upon young men. Theylook as if they had seen you before! They must take you gradually. "Martin laughed and lighted a cigar. He was recalling Raymond's face thenight Joan had first appeared before him. 

Joan struggled to keep control of the situation--she suddenly smearedher face with her sooty fingers and turned with a grimace. 

"Am I discovered even in this disguise?" she said. Then:

"Uncle Davey, I believe you have your private opinion of me still. "

"I have. I'll tell you now what it is--your face needs washing. "

"I mean--really!" the smudges acted as a mask and diverted attention. "I wager you think girls like me--the me that _was_, the workinggirls--are, generally speaking, hounding young men on the matrimonialtrail. "

"Not necessarily _that_ trail, " Martin was teasing. 

"You're all wrong, Uncle Davey, as far as most of them are concerned. They're young and love a good time and some of them have to learn alot--learn not to play on volcanoes. But for downright, running-to-earthmethods, look to such girls as Nan. They have the tide with them. Men, unless they're there to be caught, better watch out!"

"Oh! come, child, don't be sinister. "

"I'm not, Uncle David, " Joan's eyes shone; she was thinking of Patricia;"but you, everybody, lose a lot if they do not really know the truthabout women--the real truth. "

"My dear, " David was quite serious, "I'm no longer hard or misjudging--Iwas frightened at your aunt's methods with you, but you're proving mewrong every day. "

"You should have trusted her more, Uncle David. "

"Yes, you are right, in part. I should have trusted her less--in someways. "

"About me?"

"No. About herself. " Martin flecked the ashes from his cigar. "And now, "he said with a huge sigh that seemed to sweep all regrets before it, "goand wash your face!"

Joan ran away, and when she came back the room was empty and the_honk-honk_ of Martin's horn sounded down the river road. 

Then, as often happens when one stands in an empty room, Joan wasconscious of a supersensitiveness. She, quite naturally, attributed itto the ordeal she was about to undergo--the meeting with Clive Cameronand her late talk with Martin. Must she always be on the defensive? Mustshe always feel that her volcano had blown her up when really she hadescaped by its light?

While there was a certain amount of pleasurable excitement in themeeting with Cameron, while it lacked all that her meeting with Raymondhad held, still her past experiences were of so uncommon a nature thatshe could not contemplate them without nervous strain, and she wishedthat she might have had a longer reprieve before Cameron came. 

"With nothing really to be ashamed of, " she thought, "I feel like acriminal dodging justice. I wish something so big would come that Icould lose myself in it. "

Then she walked to the window overlooking The Gap. 

"It's no easy matter, Joan my lamb!" almost it seemed as if it werePatricia speaking, "to tie both ends of the rainbow together. " Joansmiled at her thought. 

"Dear, dear old Pat!" she spoke the words aloud. "The very thought ofyou--braces me. "

Joan was still on the backward trail. She did not often tread it, butwhen she did she always returned starry-eyed and brave-hearted. That washer reward: the reward that she could share with no one--except as ithelped her to live. 

Presently she turned to her task of restoring the motto on thefireboard. She worked vigorously, intently, and then leaned back to geta better view. 

Suddenly, as if they were alive, the words emerged from the last sweepof the cloth. 

"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire. "

The meaning broke like sunshine from the clouds. It made Joan laugh. 

"Well, of all the funny things, " she said aloud, "and from the Bible, too, " for "Isaiah" was brought into evidence by another rub. "This houseis certainly haunted. "

Just then a sharp knock on the panels of the door, set wide to thesweet summer day, startled Joan and brought her to her feet, with thatquivering of the nerves that betokened an almost psychic state. 

A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes--good ones, wellfashioned--were wrinkled and travel stained. They gave the impression ofhaving been slept in. The man was like his garments--the worse for wearbut, originally, of good material. 

Joan recognized that at once--after she got over the surprise of findingthat he was not Clive Cameron. 

"Good morning, " she said, quietly, while a familiarity about thestranger puzzled her. "Come in and sit down, please. "

The man came in, walking stiffly, his eyes fixed upon Joan in a way thatconfused her. She felt that she ought to remember him, but could not. 

"I've tied my horse down by the road, " the stranger said, sitting downby the long table, "I got the beast at the station. The distance waslonger than I imagined and the roads are--to say the least--not oiled. "He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat--still keeping his eyes onJoan. 

"Is your aunt at home?" he continued. So then, the man should berecognized--but he still eluded Joan's memory. 

"No, she is not. She will not be back for some time. I am sorry that Icannot recall you--I am sure I have seen you--but----"

"You'd have a remarkable memory if you did recall me, " there was a sneerin the laugh that followed the words; "you were very young when you sawme before. Perhaps I can help you--you are--Joan, are you not?"

"Yes. " Joan sat down opposite the man--her hands were clasped close. 

"I'm George Thornton, formerly of the Philippines, later of SouthAfrica, more recently of New York, where I stayed long enough to learnmy way here. Incidentally, I am your father. "

Had Joan been standing she would have fallen. As it was, she quicklyovercame the dizziness that made the speaker seem to dance about and, by gripping her hands closer, she steadied herself. 

"I suppose you have never heard of me before?"

"Oh! yes!" Joan listened to her own voice critically; "Aunt Doris toldNancy and me all about you. "

"All, eh?" Thornton could barely keep the surprise and relief from hisvoice. This simplified matters and he could talk freely. 

"What do you want?" The question as Joan spoke it sounded brutal. "I donot suppose you have come here, after all these years, for nothing. "

Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech. 

"I've come to make your aunt--pay. When I saw you before--you and yoursupposed sister--your aunt had all the cards in her hands, but I toldher then that murder would out--and by God! it has--and now it is payday. " The years had coarsened Thornton. 

Joan stared at the man across the table as if he had suddenly gone madbefore her eyes. She was frightened; she heard distant voices--the cookspeaking to Jed--she wanted to call out; meant to--but instead she askeddully:

"What do you mean by--my supposed sister?"

Thornton shifted his position and leaned forward over the table. 

"So--eh? She didn't tell you all? I see. She confined the story to--me. And--you've believed all your life--that--that the girl, Nancy, was yoursister? Well--by heaven! Doris has taken a chance. "

"You have got to tell me what you mean!"

Joan was no longer filled with personal fear--it was wider, deeper thanthat. 

"And you must not lie, " she added, fiercely--anger was giving herstrength. Thornton regarded her through half-closed eyes. 

"Lying isn't my big line, " he said, roughly, "if it had seen, I mighthave escaped the infernal mess that I hatched by--telling the truth inthe first place. Since your aunt has neglected her duty--I will tell youthe truth!"

Thornton took small heed of the stricken girl near him. Hate and revengefor the moment swayed him, but not for an instant did Joan disbelievewhat was burning into her consciousness. Truth rang in every word of thealmost unbelievable story. And while she listened and shrank back shewas conscious of inanimate things taking on human attributes thatpleaded with her. The chair by the hearth where Doris had but recentlysat smiling so happily because her ideals had been real to her! Nancyand she, Joan seemed to know, were the ideals--Nancy and she! For themDoris had done the one, big, daring thing in her life. The loom by thewindow suddenly cried out, too, as if Nancy were bending overit--working on her unfinished but perfect pattern. 

"Oh!" The word escaped Joan and found its way to Thornton's sympathy atlast. He paused as he watched the suffering his words were causing. 

"It's a damned ugly thing she did to you, " he said, "a damned ugly one. I warned her about the time when you would have to know. I've travelleda long distance to set you straight. She'll pay--now!"

Joan tried to speak--failed--then tried again. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily, at last. 

Thornton regarded her with a dark frown. 

"Do?" he repeated, "claim my own--and let her pay. "

"What good--would that do--now?"

Thornton stared. Where had he heard words like those before? Why shouldthey seem to defy him? defeat him?

"I'm going to have the truth known at last or----"

"Or--what?"

Shame held Thornton silent for a moment, but life had him at closegrip--he was beaten unless help were given. 

"You think they will enjoy--the Tweksbury crowd--I mean--to know theparentage or--lack of it--of--the girl just palmed off on them as aThornton? I may not be all that could be desired, but such as I am--I'mthe saving clause. " Thornton's coarseness was more and more evident. "I wonder if you can justify this mess?" he asked, suddenly, with a newinterest. 

Joan was not trying to justify it--she was seeing it only as thebeautiful thing Doris had accomplished by that power of hers to makereal her ideal. It had been, still was, her one hold on life. 

"It's too late to talk about that now, " she answered, slowly, andthinking fast and far, far ahead. 

"I imagine it will be expensive not to think of it; but she'll pay!"Thornton was braced for definite action. The girl opposite confused him. She looked so young; so agonized--so brave. She was so like---- At thisThornton turned away his eyes. Only by so doing could he hold to hiscourse. 

Slowly, like one dragging a heavy load, Joan was reaching a place ofclear understanding. Flashed upon her aching brain were blindingpictures. 

"One child was a forsaken waif of these hills----" Thornton had said. "_Thunder Peak! The old woman! Mary's silent and secret mission!_" rangthe echo. Joan's eyes widened; her breath caught in her throat while shecompelled herself to weigh and consider--though she did it in the dark. Then suddenly Mary became a tower of strength. Mary!

Then Nancy's loveliness and charm gave their convincing evidence againstJoan's own characteristics. At this she shuddered. 

"Doris said she never knew which child was mine, " Thornton's words stillechoed. 

"But she must have known!" Joan bowed her head, and all the lonelinessof her life gathered in this moment of supreme acceptance. She knew, now, why she was, as she was; she knew why they could all clingtogether. There was something that could hold them together; somethingstronger than Doris could command. There _was_ a pay day! It had come!

"I do not see, " Joan spoke at last, and her voice was heavy and even, "why you should think you can harm Nancy. If what you have told is--Imean, _because_ what you have told is true--Nancy cannot be hurt--Nancyis--is yours! You would never doubt that if you saw her. I suppose youthink"--here Joan's eyes flamed--"you can get more by attacking Nancy. "

At this Thornton startled Joan by throwing his head back and laughingaloud, fearlessly, roughly. 

She was alarmed. The servants--what would they think? Mary--suppose Maryshould appear? But above all else Joan wanted to get this hideous thingover before Doris returned. Never for an instant did she falter there. 

But the laugh continued, less noisy but more reckless. 

"Well, by heaven, you are game!" Thornton managed to form the words, andin his eyes there was a glint of admiration. His old sporting spiritawakened--he knew the genuine ring of metal. 

"Why, see here, my girl, " he drew from his pocket a gold locket and anold daguerreotype; "you don't suppose I came without evidence, do you?"

Mechanically Joan reached across the table and took the articles--herfingers were stiff and cold, but she managed to unclasp the cases. Thornton was watching her; he had stopped laughing. 

In the locket were two miniatures--one of Meredith Fletcher, one ofThornton painted just after their marriage--Doris had the duplicate ofMeredith's. 

"That, " Thornton spoke deliberately, as Joan turned to the other, "is mymother! She and I were very like. "

Joan drew her breath in sharp. 

Once, back in the Dondale days, she had sung some of her old Englishballads in costume--a quaint picture of her had been taken at the timeand, for an instant, she thought this was it--she vaguely wondered howThornton had got it--she could not think clearly--her brain was growingcloudy. Then she turned the old case over in her hand and looked at itmutely. 

"They discounted your resemblance to my side of the house. " There wassomething almost pathetic underlying the sneer in Thornton's voice. "Idid not know myself until I came in the door--but when I saw you, it wasas if my mother stood here. "

Joan could not speak, but, as a change of wind turned the mists in TheGap _to_ the east instead of _from_ the east, so her clouds weredrifting; drifting, and a flood of light was blinding her. She lookedup--her eyes were shining with tears that did not fall; her lipstwitched nervously, but she was happy; happy. The sensation broughtstrength and purpose. She did not seem alone--she was close, close tothem who, unseen, but vital, were pressing near; waiting for herdecision--now that she understood! What had her unconscious preparationdone for her?

Oh! she would not fail them. She was almost ready to prove herself. In amoment she could master her emotions and be worthy. 

Then she looked at Thornton and throbbed with hate; but as she lookedher mood again changed--she felt such pity as she had never known in herlife before. 

It repelled; it did not attract--but it was pity that called forth adesire to help. Clasping the silent witnesses of the truth in her coldhands Joan spoke:

"No! Aunt Doris and Nancy shall not pay, " she said, quietly. 

"Who--then?" Thornton felt the ground slipping from under him. The youngcreature opposite looked so old and hard that she impressed him in spiteof himself. 

"You and I--will pay!"

By those words Joan took her stand with Thornton, not against him. Hewinced. 

"Think--think what all this means, " she faltered. 

Thornton did think. He thought back of the girl confronting him with hismother's eyes. The backward path was black and wreck-strewn; itled--where?

"Aunt Doris has told me of--of my mother! You and I owe my mother----"here Joan choked and Thornton burst in:

"But is it right and decent--that this imposition should be put uponinnocent people? That girl--may turn out to be----"

But Joan was not heeding. She paused and looked at the unfinished butperfect work upon the loom!

"It is too late now to consider that, " she whispered, brokenly. Then:"Aunt Doris has saved Nancy. You need have no fear. 

"Oh! can you not see what a chance you have to--to help this wonderfulthing Aunt Doris did?"

"Help? How?" Thornton sunk back in his chair. He was crushed--but in thedepths of his soul something was stirring; something that he believedhad died when he heard of the birth of the girl across the table who waspleading with him for those who had made her what she was!

"How?"

"Why--by simply--going away!"

Thornton almost broke again into that maddening laugh, but caughthimself in time. 

"That sounds--devilish easy!" he said, furiously, but the flare ofpassion died at birth, for Joan was saying:

"I have some money of my own--I will send it all to you. I will getmoney for you--as long as you need it--but after a time you will--notneed it! And then"--here Joan stretched out her clasped hands--"I knowit sounds almost impossible--but it can be made true--you can come backto us all; help us keep the secret, and--watch with us. You and I owethis--to Aunt Doris; to my mother! It may be your--your--recompense. "

Thornton got upon his feet. He held to the table to steady himself, anda subtle dignity grew upon him. 

"I am going away, " he said, slowly, "until I can think over thisinfernal business by myself. The time to act hasn't come yet--that'scertain. I don't want--your money; not now. If I do, I'll send for it. If I ever come again it will be to--" he paused, flung his head up--"tosee you; to look on at the working out of the damned mess. "

He reached out for the locket and case. 

"Good-bye, " he said, gruffly. "You need not be afraid--not now. "

"I am not afraid. " Joan rose weakly. "I shall wait for you. I am sureyou will come. 

"Good-bye; good-bye!"

Outside Thornton stumbled against old Jed. 

"The Ship's sailing!" the quavering, foolish words startled Thornton;"you best get aboard, sir, anchor's lifting!" Jed staggered away, grinning and muttering. 

Thornton stared after the swaying figure. Then he thought of thePhilippines, his old battle ground--he would go back! The idea caughtand held him. 

On the river road his horse stood nibbling the grass; a woman was besideit--a lean, stooping woman with a home-spun shawl clutched over hersunken breasts by one hand, in the other was a massive, rusty gun!

She turned and confronted Thornton. She knew him at once, but he merelyfrowned at her as he eyed the weapon uneasily. 

"Who are you?" he asked. The place, the experience were getting to betoo much for his shaken nerves. 

"That don't matter, " Mary raised her deep eyes, they were burning withsuperstitious intentness; "but I have a message for you--you best heedit. We don't stand for strangers hanging around here. See there!" Marypointed to The Rock--Thornton's excited fancy caught the waveringoutlines of The Ship. 

"All that's wise--goes with that. " Mary turned away. "You best heed!"she muttered as Jed had, and slunk off. 

Thornton shivered. He had not eaten for many hours; he was weary andbeaten. 

"My God!" he muttered as he mounted the horse; "what--a conspiracy! Whata hole to get away from. She thinks I'm looking for stills. Stills!" hegave a weak laugh. 

Joan stood until she heard the sound of the horse's hoofs on the road, then she turned to the freshly brushed but empty hearth and knelt, shivering. 

"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire. " Her eyes clung to the words asif they were living flames. She was not conscious of thought, but sheseemed to _know_ that she had only _seen_ the fire before but that nowshe was to feel it. A glow was stirring within her--a bright, flamingthing that lighted her way, on before--the long, long splendid way onwhich responsibility rested like a halo. 

She held within her soul all that had gone into her making--shebelonged, in a great and demanding significance, to--Doris and Doris'speople. Doris's and her own! Her own! She must prove herself--behind theshield; she must make the _real_ her ideal. She must not be afraid. Fearwas the only thing that mattered. 

Her whole life had been but an outline up to now; she must fill it in!She must not be afraid to set sail. 

Who had said that to her?

"Set sail. Bids--you set sail!"

So engrossed was Joan in the flooding tide of thought, so entirely wasshe abandoning herself to it, that it was only when she heard Dorisspeak that she turned. 

"Joan, we've brought Clive! We met him on the way. "

Joan did not rise. With hands clasped in her lap she faced the littlegroup in the doorway. 

Her eyes were filled with the golden light of day--she waited; all herlife, she knew, she had been preparing for this moment. She sawCameron's start of surprise; his wonder and doubt. Then she saw himgathering strength as for the last lap of a hard race. 

"So I have found you!" he said, and pushing past Martin and Doris hecame across the room with outstretched hands. 

Something was calling in the tone which words could not convey, and Joancould not answer. It was like hearing a voice where before there hadbeen but echoes. 

"I always knew that I would find you!"

Cameron had reached the girl on the floor; he bent and drew her to herfeet. His eyes were laughing; he saw her effort to answer him; herseeking to--understand what _he_ had already learned. 

"It's--all right now, " he comforted. 

"Yes--of course!"

How futile were the words, but they opened the way for truth to floodin. 

Joan, her hands still in Cameron's, her eyes clinging to his, murmuredagain, "Yes; of course--now!"

Then she turned to the two silent, amazed people in the doorway and, bysome magic, they were making her realize that she was facing her BigChance. Hers!

She must not be afraid. Fear was the only thing that could harm. 

Where they had been weak, she must be strong; where they had beenblinded, she must--see!

Why, that was what her life and Cameron's meant, and the two, standingapart, together--but alone--had made it possible. 

She, like Nancy, must "carry on, " not mistakenly, not held on leash, butwith a freedom born of choice and understanding; of failures, and thelearning of the true from the false. 

To her--and again Joan turned to Cameron--and to him, was given theglorious opportunity of making the _real_, ideal. 

It was then that Joan threw her head back and laughed that laugh of hersthat meant but one thing: An acceptance of life; a faith in its freedom;a conviction that it could be lived gladly and without fear. 

THE END

 * * * * *

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen. 

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work. 

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen, " this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written. 

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. 

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics, --more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest. 

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence P. Underwood. 

The "Flirt, " the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. 

_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street. 

The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful storyof sisterly devotion and sacrifice. 

POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY. Frontispiece by George Gibbs. 

A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and"The Tide-Marsh. " This story is now shown in moving pictures. 

JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 

The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happinessand love. 

MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED. Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. 

The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions. 

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 

An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a secondmarriage. 

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. 

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of _a_ normal girl, obscure andlonely, for the happiness of life. 

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. 

Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheerdetermination to the better things for which her soul hungered?

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of everygirl's life, and some dreams which came true. 

_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

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FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER

A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost herlover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developmentsfollow. 

THE UPAS TREE

A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and hiswife. 

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE

The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in agesvanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration ofabiding love. 

THE ROSARY

The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all elsein the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life'sgreatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real peoplesuperbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. 

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE

The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of ahusband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who isignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. Whenhe learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed. 

THE BROKEN HALO

The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered inchildhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years olderthan himself, to whom he is passionately devoted. 

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marrieswealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of heruncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and arereunited after experiences that soften and purify. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lampof love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations tofinal happiness. 

GREATHEART

The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. 

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance. "

THE SWINDLER

The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. 

THE TIDAL WAVE

Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. 

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four otherlong stories of equal interest. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

JUST DAVID

The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the heartsof the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. 

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

A compelling romance of love and marriage. 

OH, MONEY! MONEY!

Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of hisrelatives, sends them each a check for $100, 000, and then as plain JohnSmith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. 

SIX STAR RANCH

A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six StarRanch. 

DAWN

The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf ofdespair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to theservice of blind soldiers. 

ACROSS THE YEARS

Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some ofthe best writing Mrs. Porter has done. 

THE TANGLED THREADS

In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of allher other books. 

THE TIE THAT BINDS

Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent forwarm and vivid character drawing. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers. 

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in NorthernIndiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumesthe responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward andonward. 

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie andthe Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhoodand about whose family there hangs a mystery. 

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

"The Harvester, " is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book hadnothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods, " there begins a romanceof the rarest idyllic quality. 

FRECKLES. Illustrated. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment. 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, andits pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated. 

A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy andhumor. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation adjusted to be consistent with contemporary standards. 

Page 100, "genuis" changed to "genius" (the girl had genius). 

Page 173, "undestand" changed to "understand" (make you understand). 

Page 176, "Massachusett" changed to "Massachusetts" (Massachusetts coast. )

Page 201, "pleassure" changed to "pleasure" (business, pleasure, art). 

Page 261, "hopefuly" changed to "hopefully" (hopefully sent). 

Page 75, "diguise" changed to "disguise" (cannot disguise herself). 

Page 111, "pallette" changed to "palette" (tossed her palette aside). 

Page 128, "virture" changed to "virtue" (unbending virtue). 

Page 128, "assinine" changed to "asinine" (his asinine conceit). 

Page 228, "browzing" changed to "browsing" (browsing along). 

Page 281, "volcanos" changed to "volcanoes" (to play on volcanoes).