“A strange woman is Mary,” Doris confided to Nancy; “nothing seems to make any impression upon her.”

Nancy opened her lovely blue eyes wide at this.

“Why, Aunt Dorrie,” she replied, “Mary would die for us—­and never mention it.  She’s made that still, faithful way.”

Doris smiled, but did not change her mind.  The people of the hills were never 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 blank but silent moment both Doris and Nancy wondered if the lack were to defeat 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 in Martin’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 have told my patients so.  Sink or swim, but you’ve got clear water to do it in.  I’ll hang around—­make my city headquarters with you; lend myself to you; but for the rest I’m going to do exactly what I want to do—­for a time.”

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 woman gets so into your system that she cannot be purged out, that you dare to be 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 age of asking the question.”

And having settled that to his satisfaction, Martin turned resolutely to what threatened Doris and Nancy.

He meant to see fair play.  Doris could be depended upon for a few strenuous 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, “it must apply to Nancy also.”

Martin was extremely fond of Nancy.  He often wished she would not lean so heavily, but then his spiritual ideal of a woman was after Nancy’s design.  Of Joan he disapproved, and Doris was a type apart.

“If we can marry Nancy off,” plotted Martin—­and he had his mind’s eye on his nephew—­“I’ll bring Sister on from the West and get Doris to share Ridge House with us.  Queer combination, but safe!”

And then he saw, as in a vision, the peaceful years on ahead.  He would hold Doris’s hand down the westering way.  Hold it close and warm; never looking for more than the blessed companionship.  And his sister, happy and content, would share the way with them and Nancy’s children—­would they be Clive’s also?—­would gladden all their hearts.  And Joan?—­well, Martin did not feel that Joan needed his architectural aid—­she was chopping and hacking her own design.