words
took on the mountain touch. Doris was fascinated.

"You mean your father's old cabin?" she asked.

"Yes. It lies 'cross the river from Ridge House, and when I think of
it," a suggestion of radiance broke on Mary's face, "I get a rising in
my side. I'm aiming to get it back----"

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