he clearings; they revelled in
it all and carried out every suggestion offered. They learned, through
Father Noble's interpretation, to ignore the stolid indifference of the
people; they played for, not with, the shy children, and distributed
marvellous toys that were limply held in small hands that were yet to
learn the blessed sense of ownership.

"When you are gone," Father Noble explained and chuckled delightedly,
"they will watch the trails for your coming back. They never forget;
they are worth the saving--but one must have faith and patience."

Then January settled down in The Gap. The short days were full of clouds
and shadows; the river ran sullenly, and with greater need for sympathy
Joan made ready to demolish Nancy's toys. She came into the living room
one morning in her riding togs. She was splashed with mud and her face
was dull except for the wide, burning eyes.

Nancy was weaving at the window--Mary had taught her, and she gave the
impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood.

Around the fire lay four hound puppies--they had taken the place of
dolls in Nancy's affections. As Joan entered the dogs raised their
absurd heads and with their flappy ears and padded paws patted the floor
in welcome.

"Where is Aunt Dorrie?" asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deep
chair.

"In the chapel," Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woof
and warp.

"I wish Aunt Dorrie would have that room sealed!" Joan spoke
ill-naturedly; "I know it's haunted. If we don't look out the ghosts
will ooze over the whole house. Ooh!"

Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty. The clacking noise
emphasized Joan's nervousness.

"Aunt Dorrie doesn't know what to do here--that's why she takes to the
chapel. That's why everyone takes to chapels."

Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed.

"I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?" The
laugh still persisted in the mocking words.

"It's--it's quite the thing," Nancy said, fatuously, "to have country
places. I think it's wonderful."

"You may not be able to help being a snob, Nan, but don't be a prig."
Joan's words struck hurtingly. Then suddenly her mood changed.

"Forgive me, snow-child," she whispered, going close to Nancy. "I'm a
beast. Isn't it queer to be conscious, now and then, of the beast in
you?"

"Please don't, Joan, dear. Please don't talk and act so." Nancy's eyes
were blinded by tears.

"Ve