And then--as the long evenings pressed silently cold and dark around the shack, her fancy ran riot. All that she had yearned for; all, all that the books had suggested, she was to see. Mountain peaks and roaring ocean; strange people like, yet so unlike, Gaston. To think that all this was going to happen to her--old Jared's little Joyce. A few days after Gaston's departure Jock Filmer walked into the shack quite as easily as if months had not passed without a sight of him; he came almost daily afterward. It was like Jock to assume the new relation in this easy, companionable way. Joyce was grateful. This was but another proof of Gaston's greatness. "Everything going straight, Joyce?" The question came one day while the keen eyes were taking in the store of wood, water and other necessaries. "Everything, Jock; and the store-room is stocked. Sit down--and tell me the news." Joyce was not particularly interested, but it would put Jock at ease. Jock gracefully flung himself into Gaston's chair. The two were, of course, in the living room. "There's company up to the bungalow," he spoke from the fullness of his heart; "a widder girl." "A--a widow?" Joyce was for a moment perplexed. "Yes. She don't look a day older than Drew's sister, and she's powerful cheerful for an afflicted person. But maybe she ain't afflicted. They ain't, always. She looks as if she was dressing up in them togs for fun, and at first glimpse it strikes one as sacrilegious. Something like a kid using holy words in its play." Joyce smiled. After all it was good to have the dear human touch, even if the vital spark were lacking. "Is--the widow-girl pretty, Jock?" she asked in order to detain Filmer. "Well," a line came between Jock's eyes, "that's the puzzler. Now Drew's sister--" Jock spoke in this detached way of Constance Drew for self-defense--"Drew's sister stands for what she is; a good, honest, handsome girl. You own up to that and that's the end of it. This one sets you thinking. Is she, or ain't she pretty? you keep putting to yourself. Do you like her, or don't you? Is she thinking about what you're saying, or ain't she? That's the way your mind works when you are with her, till it seems a plain waste of time, and riles you way down to the ground. I like a woman what, having passed up her personality, lets you alone as to further guessing 'less you have a mind to guess. Joyce!" "Yes, Jock." "They want you up to the bungalow to help along with the Christmas doings. I never saw such happenings in all my life. All St. Ange is going to see what's what for once. Presents for everybody; big party at the bungalow Christmas night; the overflow is going even to reach up to the camps. Boxes and barrels arriving every day from down the State. Lord, but you should see Tom Smith's curiosity! There are big doings. They call it a kind of thanksgiving for the Reverend Kid's recovery; and they want you."