What she knew lay buried in her stern reserve, and she saw a great deal.

She saw at once what had occurred since she left her years of service.  Mary no longer served—­she ruled.

She saw that Joan, as she had given promise of doing, was controlling the forces of her small world.  Doing it as once she had done it in the nursery, with a radiant witchery that had gained its ends with all but Mary herself!

While Mary’s eyelids drew together, she focussed through the narrow slits upon Joan and with a hot, deep resolve she took up cudgels for Nancy.

And she bided her time.

Back and forth from her cabin to the big house she walked daily, and to Mary’s cabin Nancy, presently, went—­for comfort and inspiration, though she did not realize it.

Often, unknown to others, the two would sit near the fire, making a vivid picture.  Mary in her plaid cotton gown, bent over her folded arms, swaying to and fro, making few comments but conscious of being understood.  Nancy, fair and lovely, speaking more openly to the plain, silent woman near her than she had ever spoken to any earthly being and feeling, under her sweet unconsciousness, the underlying confidence.

“Of course,” she once whispered to Mary, “I would love all the things that Joan loves and wants, but my duty to Aunt Dorrie is bigger than they, Mary.  I am sure if Joan saw things as I do, she would act as I am acting.  But we are keeping Joan from knowing.”

“Why?” The sharp word startled Nancy—­was Mary disapproving?

“Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary.”

Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy’s softness and retreated.

And during that red-and-gold autumn, their first in The Gap, Doris was soothed strangely to a state of perfect relaxation—­a state not pleasing to Joan, and rather puzzling to David Martin, who postponed a proposed trip to the West until he felt sure of Doris’s health.  It seemed that, having dropped the old life, Doris was not merely willing to step into a new one—­she was drifting in.  Without resistance she floated.  She would lie for a whole afternoon on the porch watching the play of colour on The Rock.  She smiled, recalling, rather vaguely to be sure, the superstitions concerning The Rock.

It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in the world!

Mary and Nancy saw to every detail.  Joan was frankly interested in every phase of the experience.  “It might be,” mused Doris from her pillows, “that having left everything to that Power that does control, I am to have my heart’s deep desire—­keep both Joan and Nancy!”

CHAPTER IX

“I count life just a stuff to try the Soul’s strength on.  Learn, nor count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe.”

No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen.  It was the old nursery problem re-acted.