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.

"It's going to be great," she whispered to Doris. "All the girls and the
new games and the comings home for holidays and--and everything."

It was after they were alone that Nancy called down extra suffering upon
herself.

"Aunt Dorrie will think you did not care, Joan, and Uncle David scowled.
You make people think queer things about you."

Joan turned and fixed Nancy with flaming eyes.

"I want Aunt Dorrie to think everything is all right--you didn't! You
did not cheat her. I did--for her sake."

"Perhaps," Nancy sometimes struck a high note, unsuspectingly, "perhaps
Aunt Dorrie would rather _have_ you care."

Joan regarded her intently and then replied:

"Well, then, you're all right, Nan!"

The tone, more than the words, stung Nancy. It hurt her to have any one
misunderstand, but it often occurred to her that it hurt more to be
understood!

In the train en route to New York Doris sat very quiet, thinking of the
two little faces she was leaving--forever! It amounted to that--as every
woman knows.

Nothing but their faces held as the miles were dashed past--faces that
portrayed the spiritual essence of the old, dear years--faces that would
turn, from now on, to others, and take on new expressions, bear the mark
of another's impress.

"Well, thank heaven," Doris presently broke out, "I haven't been a vamp
mother, David."

Martin came from behind his newspaper.

"And because of that, Doris," he said, "you will have those girls coming
back to you. They will want to come." He was thinking of Nancy.

"Yes. I have a sure feeling about that." Then: "How splendid it was of
Joan to act as she did! She'd rather we thought her hard than to let us
see her pain."

Martin stared. "You mean Nancy