es and wants, but my duty to Aunt Dorrie is bigger than
they, Mary. I am sure if Joan saw things as I do, she would act as I am
acting. But we are keeping Joan from knowing."

"Why?" The sharp word startled Nancy--was Mary disapproving?

"Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary."

Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy's softness and
retreated.

And during that red-and-gold autumn, their first in The Gap, Doris was
soothed strangely to a state of perfect relaxation--a state not pleasing
to Joan, and rather puzzling to David Martin, who postponed a proposed
trip to the West until he felt sure of Doris's health. It seemed that,
having dropped the old life, Doris was not merely willing to step into a
new one--she was drifting in. Without resistance she floated. She would
lie for a whole afternoon on the porch watching the play of colour on
The Rock. She smiled, recalling, rather vaguely to be sure, the
superstitions concerning The Rock.

It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in the
world!

Mary and Nancy saw to every detail. Joan was frankly interested in every
phase of the experience. "It might be," mused Doris from her pillows,
"that having left everything to that Power that does control, I am to
have my heart's deep desire--keep both Joan and Nancy!"

CHAPTER IX

"_I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, nor
count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe._"

No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen. It was the old
nursery problem re-acted.

Joan had tired of her game, had used all the material at hand, and was
burning to be on the adventurous trail.

The old restlessness and defiance were singing in the girl's blood;
mockery rang in her voice and that wonderful laugh of hers. She was
about to smash into the safe joyousness of things as they were! She
threatened Nancy's toys. And Mary, alone, took heed. Joan herself was
unconscious. She always was of her changing mood; she simply realized
that she was lost; somehow, astray.

And Nancy, looking mutely in Mary's eyes, seemed to say:

"It will all be so lonely; so terrible with Joan gone!"

That was it. The old fear of, or for, Joan had materialized--it was Life
with Joan left out!

"And why should one have so much and the other so little?" asked Mary of
that deep knowledge in her busy brain. "Why shouldn't they share
alike--and twins at that!"

Then Mary stopped short in her t