teresting, this getting acquainted, and"--here Joan was thinking of
the last day in the hospital and the rooms opening to the sweet
singer--"and I'm going to touch and feel life instead of merely looking
out through my own small door. And so--good-night."

She was gone as she had come--not stealthily, but noiselessly; not
afraid, 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 make
things look "as usual" in the pathetic way people do after a loved one
has 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 as
the child has gone."

Joan was on her knees polishing away at the fireboard. The smoke-covered
wood with its motto she meant to restore. She looked up brightly as
Doris spoke. Joan was accepting many things besides Nancy's going away
as Raymond's wife; accepting them without question, without explanation,
but with perfect understanding. She understood fully about David Martin
and Doris--her heart beat quick at Martin's lifelong devotion; at
Doris's withholding. She understood, too, she believed, why the coming
to the South had been necessary--the look in Doris's eyes was the same
that had haunted Patricia's--the look that holds the unfailing message.

"Aunt Dorrie, Nancy is the belonging kind. No matter how many places and
people share her she will always belong to us and the hills. She told me
that before she went. She meant it, too. She'll finish the weaving quite
naturally, soon--New York is not far."

Doris gave a soft laugh. Almost she resented the constant tone of
comfort, Joan's attitude of authority.

"No; it seems nearer and nearer all the time--since my strength has
returned. We will have part of the winter in New York and Nan and Ken
will be coming here, and there is your music, Joan!" Doris assumed
authority and Joan submitted sweetly.

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you and I will scour these hills and get
acquainted with our people and have trips abroad, perhaps. It is simply
splendid--the stretch on ahead."

The sun-lighted room was still radiant with the decorations of Nancy's
wedding. Tall jars of roses woodbine and "rhoderdeners," as old Jed
called them, were everywh