st have loads of pretty things, and I
will open the old house--perhaps we can lure Joan also, and have the
time of our lives. How would you like that Nan, girl?"

The tone was pleading, almost imploring. Doris had a sense of having
wronged the girl, somehow.

"Oh, Aunt Dorrie, I should love it!" Nancy came across the room, all
suggestion of age gone. "That is--if it will not harm you, dear."

"I think it would do you both good," Martin spoke earnestly; "I begin to
realize what you once said, Doris. One has to have the country in his
blood to be of the country. You must have change and"--turning to
Nancy--"give this child a chance to--to show off."

He reached out and pinched Nancy's pale cheek.

"Run out," he commanded, suddenly; "run out into the sunshine and forget
the storm. You're exactly like your aunt--conquer it, conquer it, child,
while conquering is part of the programme."

Nancy managed a smile, leaned and kissed Doris, waved a salute to
Martin, and fled from the room.

"David, somehow I've hurt that girl." Doris spoke wearily.

"How?" Martin questioned.

Doris looked up and shook her head.

"How have I, Davey? I cannot tell."

"She's not hurt--but she's in line to be sacrificed if we don't look
out. I'm the guilty one--I thought only of you."

And then the two planned for the winter.

Nancy took her dogs and went for a walk--a safe and near walk. The
colour crept into her pale face, but her eyes had a furtive look and
every noise in the bushes set her trembling. She had a conscious feeling
of wanting to get away--far, far away. The Gap frightened her; she
remembered old stories about it. Suddenly she looked up at The Rock and
her breath almost stopped.

Fascinated, she stared; her eyes seemed to be following an invisible
finger--The Ship was on The Rock!

Try as she might, Nancy could eat but little lunch. The small table was
on the porch. Doris had recovered from her headache and was particularly
gay--the planning for Nancy had done more for her than it had for Nancy
herself.

"You had better go to your room and lie down," Martin suggested, eyeing
the girl.

"Yes, I will, Uncle David."

But once in the dim quiet of the west wing chamber fresh memories
assailed her.

This was the room, she recalled, into which Mary had seen--how absurd it
was!--the dolls turned to babies. Such foolish, childish memories to
cling and grip! How much better to be like Joan and laugh away the idle
tales!