the effect Nancy had upon Jed.

The man stared at the girl as if he saw a ghost. Like the very old, his
real sensations lay in the past. Nancy stirred him strangely. The
emotion was like a warm ray of sunlight striking in a dark place. Doris
watched him with interest and concern; but Jed had no words with which
to enlighten her. He only smiled wider, more often, and took to
following Nancy like a wavering, distorted shadow.

The second incident was Mary.

From her cabin across the river she had manipulated the arrangements at
Ridge House so perfectly that the machinery was oiled and running when
the family arrived.

Mary was more reserved, more self-contained than she had ever been, but
again, as Martin said to Doris, she must be judged by what she did, not
by what she suggested, and she had accomplished marvels not only at the
old place, but in her cabin across The Gap. In her once-deserted home
Mary had contrived to resurrect all the ideals that had perished with
her forebears. The rooms shone and glittered; the garden throve; and
Mary spun and wove and designed and made money. She was respected,
feared, and secretly believed to be "low-down mean," but calmly she went
her way.

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 lov