The girl stopped short—­something in her threatened to break loose.

The pause gave Doris a moment to consider.  She was baffled by Mary, but she saw clearly that the girl had but one desire.

“Mary,” she said, presently, “I have always intended, when the children no longer needed you, to give you some proof of my appreciation of all that you have done for us.  You seem to have shown me a way.  You shall have the old cabin, if it can be obtained, and it shall be made comfortable for you.  It is not so far but what you can have a little oversight of Ridge House, too, and that will mean a great deal to me.  I am thinking of opening the house sometime.”

Doris got no further for, to her astonishment, Mary rose and came stiffly toward her.  When she was near enough she reached out her hands and said: 

“God hearing me, ’I’ll pay you back some day.  I will; I will!”

Doris was embarrassed.

“You have paid everything you owe me, Mary,” she returned, quietly.  “It is my turn now.  I will see about the cabin at once.”

Finally a letter came from Thornton.  A dictated letter.

He was about to leave for South Africa and would be gone perhaps several years.

He left everything in Doris’s capable hands!

Again Doris took breath for the next stretch of the long way.

And Joan and Nancy went to Dondale and Miss Phillips.

It was a hard break for them all and was taken characteristically.  Joan, tear-stained and quivering, set her face to the change and excitement with unmistakable delight.  Nancy was frightened into silent but smiling acquiescence.  She expected, she told Joan, that it would kill her, but she would not make Aunt Dorrie feel any worse than she did by showing what she felt!  At this Joan tossed her head and sent two large tears rolling down her cheeks.

“None of us will die, Nan.  We all feel deathly, but this is—­life.”

At ten Joan had a distinct comprehension of the difference between living and life.  To a certain extent you controlled the former; the latter “got you.”

“I—­I don’t want life,” wailed Nancy, “I want Aunt Dorrie.”

“But life—­wants you!”

Somewhere Joan had heard that, or read it—­the old library was no hidden place to her—­and she brought it forth now with emphasis.

Nancy made no reply.  In that mood Joan would show no mercy.  It was when she was suffering the most that Joan could harden and frighten Nancy.  She was lashing herself to duty when she sent the whip cracking.

Martin accompanied Doris to Dondale.  He was “Uncle David” to the children and part of their happy lives.

“Take—­take good care of Aunt Dorrie,” Nancy pleaded with him at parting, her poor little face distorted by the effort she was making.

“You bet!” Martin bent and kissed the child.  He approved of Nancy.  Martin could never patiently endure complications, and Nancy was simple and direct.  Joan was another matter.  At the last she was in high spirits.