ts
mark upon her. It was wonderful to lie on the porch and watch the beauty
of The Gap change from season to season. The sound of the river was
always in her ears, and there was a dramatic appeal in kneeling at the
altar in the tiny chapel to pray for them whom she loved so tenderly.

And Nancy was so sweet and companionable! Poor little Nancy! She was
playing Doris's minor accompaniment as once she had played Joan's more
vivid one. But the youth in her was surging and rebelling--not against
love and service, but inequality.

"Joan should bear half, anyway!"

Just what it was that Joan should share Nancy could not have told, she
simply knew that she wanted Joan--wanted what Joan represented.

With the passing of winter and the early coming of spring Nancy and
Doris 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 azalea
burst into bloom and the windows and doors were flung back in welcome to
spring.

The grounds around Ridge House needed much attention, and Doris
contrived to make Uncle Jed believe that he was the gardener. Nancy,
surrounded by dogs, no longer pups, wandered on the Little Road and
timidly took to the trails. It was quite exciting to go a little farther
each day into the mysterious gloom that was pierced by the golden
sunlight. Gradually the girl felt the joy of the mountaineer; vaguely
the emotion took shape.

What lay just around the curve ahead? What could one see from that
mysterious top? Was there a "top"? If one went on, overcoming obstacles,
what might there not be? These ambitions were quite outside the by-paths
once or twice taken with Father Noble.

Doris was glad to see the light and colour in Nancy's pretty face; she
was 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--and
perhaps she was, for God's ways are often like the trails of the high
places--hidden until one treads them.

Nancy, by May, had lost all fear of the solitude, and with seeking eyes
she wandered farther and higher day by day. She brought back wonderful
flowers and ferns to Ridge House; she grew eloquent about the "lost
cabins" as she called them, secreted from any gaze but that which, like
hers, sought them out. She took gifts to the old people and timid
children.

"It's such fun, Aunt Dorrie," she explained, "to wi