Presently she got up and bathed.

“I’m going to Mary’s!” she suddenly thought, and then felt as if she had been getting ready to go all day.  She felt deceitful, sly, in spite of her constant reiteration that it had just occurred to her.

She left the house unseen; she hid behind a bush when she saw the hounds raise their heads from the sunny porch—­she wanted to go alone to the cabin across the river.

It was three o’clock when she reached it, and she had hurried along the short trail, too.  Mary was not in sight, but the living-room door was open and Nancy stood looking in with a baffling sense of unreality; the place looked different; almost as if she had never seen it before.  She mentally took note of the furniture as though checking the pieces off.

The big bed, gay with patchwork quilts—­Nancy knew all the patterns:  Sunrise on the Peaks; Drunkard’s Path; the Rainbow—­Mary was making up for all that her forebears had neglected to do.  Early and late she spun and wrought—­she piled her bed high with the results of her labours; she covered the floor with marvellous rugs; she filled her chest of drawers with linen—­Nancy glanced at the chest and fancied that she smelt the lavender that was spread on the folded treasures.

How the candlesticks shone; how sweet and clean it was, how safe!

Nancy stepped inside and sat down.  The logs were laid ready for the lighting on the cracked but dustless hearth.

And then, quite unconsciously, the girl began to croon an old song, swaying back and forth, her arms folded and her eyes peaceful and waiting.

Mary, returning from her garden planting, stood by the door, unnoticed, and grimly took in the scene.

What it was that disturbed and angered her she could not have told, but she could not see Nancy sitting so—­and—­and—­looking as she looked!

Mary strode across the room, causing Nancy to start nervously.

“What ails yo’?” Mary asked, “you look powerful sorry.”

“I’m—­I’m frightened, Mary.”

Oddly enough, it was easy to speak frankly to the stern, plain woman across the hearth.  And it was easy for Mary, after her first glance, to be ready with anything that could comfort the girl near her.

“What frightened yo’—­the storm?  I thought ’bout you.”

“Yes—­the storm, but—­Mary, who lives on Thunder Peak?”

Some people are unnerved by surprise; Mary was always steadied.

“There ain’t any one,” she said, quietly, and leaned over to light the fire; the afternoon was growing chilly.

“Who used to live there, Mary?  There is a cabin there.”

Mary did not flinch, but she was feeling her way, always a little ahead of Nancy.

“There was an old woman lived there—­long ago; she died.”

“Are you sure, Mary?”

“I’m right certain.  She plumb broke down when she was ninety, and that was years back.”