"It's--you--the Thing is--_you_" he whispered, and at that moment knew the last, definite difference between what he now felt and--all that had gone before.

CHAPTER XXI

"_To suffer sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth that has to be learned in the fire._"

It was all so exactly as it should be--the love affair of Nancy and Raymond--that it lacked excitement. There was a moment when Doris and David Martin looked into each other's eyes and sadly smiled; but that was past as it came.

"It's all right, Davey!"

"Of course, Doris, and Bud wasn't in it after all. It was our desire--not his. He seems to feel he ought to be cheered for whooping the 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 embarra.s.sed Nancy. She fairly bounded over the fragrant garden of new love and scanned the wide pastures beyond.

"Ken, if I can see children in this old house, I'll thank G.o.d and depart in peace. Say that you will come here, boy. You know I'm always scuttling overseas. I won't be in the way--but it is the one desire of my shrivelled old heart."

"Aunt Emily, go slow and don't be ridiculous. The idea of your being in the way in your own house!"

"Ken, make Nancy love me. I know I'm gnarled and crusty, but I need what she has to give all the more because of that. I have no pride--I want that 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 home she cannot leave Miss Fletcher. Nancy must not sacrifice herself."

Raymond was quickly a.s.suming 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't do 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 believe she is like her disreputable father--you know about him, Ken?"

"Yes--something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him--she says she wants to have a 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 above reproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if he had 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 safe side--but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference."

"Nancy speaks for herself, Aunt Emily."

"Yes, thank G.o.d, and redeems her father. Wait until you see the sister.

She was a lovely, distracting imp--but with a queer twist. I shouldn't be 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 it made 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 puffed for a moment, looking into the glowing grate, then she quoted eloquently:

"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 her off? If she were homely she'd have to fill in c.h.i.n.ks in other people's lives, but with her nice little basket of eggs, good looks, money, not too much wit, and a desire to please, she just naturally is put up for sale and off she goes!"

"Pat, you are vulgar! Nancy is the finest, sweetest of girls. She would only 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 is the collector, Joan?"

"Pat, you make me angry!" Joan really was hurt.

"She doesn't tell me his name. She says----" here Joan referred to the letter; "'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 hungry for them all.

"I'll be back in a couple of weeks; I'll only lose three lessons and surely, Pat, you'll forgive me if I desert you for that one glimpse of my darling Nan and her man?"

"I suppose so. But, Joan, don't stay long. I know how the reformed drunkard feels when he's left to his lonesome. He doubts his reformation."