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 everywhere.  Nancy had only departed two days before.

“What a charming wedding it was!” Doris mused, patting the loom; “every time I think of it something new and unusual recurs.”

Joan rubbed away and laughed gaily.

“Father Noble 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: