"Father n.o.ble looked like a precious old saint," she said. "I declare when he told about Mary I was almost afraid he'd be translated before he had a chance to marry Nan."

How little Joan realized that she was touching upon a mighty thing; how little either she or Doris were really ever to know.

Doris came to the hearth and sat down in a deep chair, her face had suddenly grown serious.

"I was thinking of that incident," she said.

"Joan, I have always misjudged Mary. She has always puzzled me. I have thought 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; Mary liked Nan the best of all, but I'm going to cultivate Mary. There is something about her like these hidden words--it must be brought out."

"To think of her caring for and loving that poor, deserted creature on that lonely peak all this time!" Doris went back to the story. "Father n.o.ble says the trail up there is the worst on the mountain, yet Mary went every day. She mended the cabin and kept the old woman clean and clothed and happy--to the very end. Think of her alone in that cabin at night when the poor soul pa.s.sed away! Mary was always so timid, too, and superst.i.tious--and we never suspecting!"

"And then," Joan took up the thread, "those ten miles to get Father n.o.ble so that there might be a proper funeral, and Nancy's wedding having to wait while they saw the thing properly through. Oh! Aunt Dorrie, it's like a glorious old comedy with so much humanity in it that it hurts. Can you not just _see_ that funeral as Father n.o.ble described it?"

Joan stood up, her eyes shining; the polishing cloth held out daintily from the pretty blue gown.

"'Twilight and evening star' effect, and those silent, amazed folks that Mary had compelled to come up the trail; the children and dogs and that comical boy tolling an old, cracked dinner bell; the procession to the clump of trees where the old women's children and grandchildren are buried--why, Aunt Doris, I see it all like a wonderful picture! There's no place on earth like these hills."

Doris saw it, too, as Joan graphically portrayed it--but she was thinking still of Mary; she was baffled.

"And yet," she said, thoughtfully, "you cannot get Mary to talk about it, and she turned quite fiercely upon poor old Jed when he asked his simple questions. She's hard as well as gentle."

"And old Jed"--Joan waved her cloth--"here's to him! Think of him crying because The Ship wouldn't sail off The Rock and insisting that the old woman on Thunder Peak had something in her arms--that ought to have gone on 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 life reading them and playing with them."

Joan was thinking, as she often did now, of touching the lives of others--all others who pressed close to her. She had never been so keen or vivid before--the calls upon her were awakening the depths of her nature. 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 her own shortcomings; her incapacity for new undertakings; "they frighten me. I have always been able to make an ideal seem real, dear, but I am afraid I fail utterly when it comes to making the real seem ideal--particularly when it is not lovely."

"Well, then, duckie, just let me do the interpreting. Father n.o.ble is going to take me under his big, flapping capes and speak a good word for me."

Doris smiled. In the growing conviction that Joan had indeed come back to her she was happy and content. She rarely rebelled now. Her one great adventure was turning out perfectly; she was thankful she had taken David Martin's advice and kept her secret. She had been fair; she had made no personal claims, but she had done what Martin had once suggested that all mothers should do--"point out the channel and keep the lights burning." There were moments when she wished that Joan were more communicative--but she must accept what was offered. Nancy had gone forth radiant to her chosen life and Joan had come back--not defeated but 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 letting the west light in did the trick. It was inspiration--nothing less."

Doris nodded, recalling why she had opened the window--Meredith had seemed nearer!

"You sang beautifully, Joan," for Joan had sung at Nancy's request a wedding hymn. "Your voice has gained a richness, dear. Next winter----"

"Yes--Aunt Dorrie!" Joan broke in nervously, then suddenly she dropped on 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 wanted her to care for Clive Cameron?"

Joan felt that Nancy had garnered all that she had sown during her learning time, and often the thought made her lonely, detached her from them. She believed that Cameron's absence from the wedding covered a hurt that her loved ones hid from her.

"Yes, Joan," Doris replied very simply, "but--we feel now that it is best as it is."

"Why, Aunt Dorrie?"

"I cannot explain. When you meet Clive Cameron"--Joan winced--"you will understand."

"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 bungled frightfully, and then Clive Cameron wedged his big body in between Nancy and several young men who might have made trouble, and--and--" Doris thought for an illuminating word. Then--"whistled Ken on!"

"Why, that's awfully funny, Aunt Dorrie--I rather imagined that Ken plunged!"

"No, he always felt attracted by Nancy--she was wonderfully attractive to 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 is very like what his uncle was when I first knew him--only surer of himself." Doris's lips trembled.

"More b.u.mptious, 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. "You mustn't get that idea. He's the most humble of fellows--but he has a vision. David says he plods along after his dreams and ideals, but when he grips them--well, he grips! I see now how right he was about Nancy and Ken. They are suited to each other."

"Yes--they're the carrying-on sort, Aunt Dorrie"; Joan looked wise and confident. "They're like their kind--Nan is like you. Away back in the Dondale days she used to gloat over all that went to your making, all your grandfathers and grandmothers. She was fore-ordained to carry on, and so was Ken. They'd be done for on paths without signboards. Aunt Dorrie----"

"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 hair again.

"Your way, little girl," she whispered, "was to fly. You had to try wings."

"Well, I'm a homing pigeon, I reckon." And Joan tossed her short hair back.

Just then there was the toot of a horn outside.

"Uncle David!" Joan exclaimed, jumping up; "and by the manner of his toot I get an impression of exhilaration.

"h.e.l.lo, Uncle Davey!" For Martin was filling the long window with his big presence.

He smiled on Joan--he did it very naturally these days. The girl was becoming strangely dear and companionable; then he looked at Doris as he always 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 with you to meet him. I _am_ glad."