“They cannot be as old as they look,” she concluded, and gladly entered into all the plans for carrying sunshine and joy into the deep places of the hills.

“Dear me, dear me!” explained Father Noble, whose memory of her was so blurred that Doris did not venture to refer to it in detail; “I thought when the Sisters went away this beautiful old house would fall into disuse.  It is a great happiness to feel its welcome once more.”

Then the old man raised his hat from his silvered head and, standing so in the doorway, besought a blessing “on them who waited but to do His will.”

Joan and Nancy rode with him back into the clearings; they revelled in it all and carried out every suggestion offered.  They learned, through Father Noble’s interpretation, to ignore the stolid indifference of the people; they played for, not with, the shy children, and distributed marvellous toys that were limply held in small hands that were yet to learn the blessed sense of ownership.

“When you are gone,” Father Noble explained and chuckled delightedly, “they will watch the trails for your coming back.  They never forget; they are worth the saving—­but one must have faith and patience.”

Then January settled down in The Gap.  The short days were full of clouds and shadows; the river ran sullenly, and with greater need for sympathy Joan made ready to demolish Nancy’s toys.  She came into the living room one morning in her riding togs.  She was splashed with mud and her face was dull except for the wide, burning eyes.

Nancy was weaving at the window—­Mary had taught her, and she gave the impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood.

Around the fire lay four hound puppies—­they had taken the place of dolls in Nancy’s affections.  As Joan entered the dogs raised their absurd heads and with their flappy ears and padded paws patted the floor in welcome.

“Where is Aunt Dorrie?” asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deep chair.

“In the chapel,” Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woof and warp.

“I wish Aunt Dorrie would have that room sealed!” Joan spoke ill-naturedly; “I know it’s haunted.  If we don’t look out the ghosts will ooze over the whole house.  Ooh!”

Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty.  The clacking noise emphasized Joan’s nervousness.

“Aunt Dorrie doesn’t know what to do here—­that’s why she takes to the chapel.  That’s why everyone takes to chapels.”

Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed.

“I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?” The laugh still persisted in the mocking words.

“It’s—­it’s quite the thing,” Nancy said, fatuously, “to have country places.  I think it’s wonderful.”

“You may not be able to help being a snob, Nan, but don’t be a prig.”  Joan’s words struck hurtingly.  Then suddenly her mood changed.