CHAPTER XXIV

“O, friend never strike sail to a fear.”

Because the woman in Joan had not been hurt by her experiences, because it was only the wildness of youth that had carried her to the verge of making mistakes and then sent her reeling back, she reacted quickly.  She was no longer the reckless, heedless Joan—­the change made Martin frown.  He put full value on her cropped hair and thin body—­he had grappled with the scourge, and he knew!

He presently found himself in friendly sympathy with this new, patient, tender Joan—­they had much to say to each other.

Nancy was not so keen about the change.  Joan had come back—­Joan was putting into life all that it lacked.  This was enough for Nancy!  The spring days were dreams of bliss and she radiated joy.

“Ken will adore you, Joan!” she confided.  “You see, he has a twisted idea about you just because you weren’t with us all, but when he sees you, darling, he’ll be on his knees before you as we all are!”

“I’d love to get my first view of him in that attitude,” Joan laughingly replied, “but on the whole, I’d rather take him standing.”

During those waiting days, until Raymond came to marry Nancy, Ridge House quivered with excited preparation.

“Of course!” Joan had agreed to the quiet wedding idea, “we must have it as Nancy wishes, but it must be perfect.”

So Joan sewed and designed—­some of Patricia’s gift was hers—­and often her face fell into pensive lines as she worked, for she seemed to see Patricia as she used to sit, well into the night, planning and evolving the dainty garments that others were to wear.

“My turn!” Joan comforted herself with the thought; “my turn now, dear Pat.”

And then the day came when Kenneth Raymond was to arrive.  Mrs. Tweksbury could be safely left in New York.  She was resigned to the wedding but deplored the necessity of being absent.

“I know something will go wrong,” she said to Kenneth; “do be careful and make sure that you are really married, Ken!  They are so sloppy in the South, and it would be quite like Doris Fletcher, if she couldn’t get that candlestick preacher of hers, to let Dave Martin or any one else read the service.  Doris never could put the emphasis of life where it belonged.”

Kenneth laughed merrily.

“Nancy and I will see to it, Aunt Emily,” he replied, “that we are tied up close.  Just use your time, until I bring her back, in thinking of the good days on ahead—­when we’ll have her always, you and I.”

Mrs. Tweksbury relaxed.

“She’s a blessed child, Ken.  She always was.”

Raymond arrived late one May afternoon.  Joan was dressing for dinner, dressing slowly, tremblingly—­she did not mean to go downstairs until dinner was served if she could avoid it.

She had worked late, worked until she was weary enough to plead an hour’s rest, and now she stood by the window overlooking The Gap.