Her voice was gloom, and yet carried more than a suspicion of rich chuckle. She enjoyed her old woes, disaster had grown so shallow. "I, too," thought the visitor, "have had a lot of things to turn! I, too, have come to where I can stand back and see the drama and feel the play thrill!" Just So was a solemn young one. He sat and gazed as though in contemplation of the many things he would have to turn. Then a brown hen came by, and he put out a brown toe and dug in the earth, and said, "Shoo!" and laughed. Miss Darcy left him playing with a string of spools and a broken coffee mill. Mimy in the kitchen was toasting coffee and singing. The coffee smelled better than good, the singing was without age in the voice. "Who built the Ark? Oh, Noah built the Ark! It rained forty days, And it rained forty nights! 'There ain't any sun and there ain't any heights!' Oh, Noah built the Ark!" Miss Darcy's path led on to the barn. Cocks and hens, white and red, held the barnyard. She watched them with pleasure, and the sun on the gray walls and the barn swallows going in and out. Then she found Mancy sitting under a shed, mending a wagon shaft. "Good morning!" "Good morning!" "It's a lovely day." "It is so, ma'am! You're from the city, aren't you?" "Yes." "I hope you like Sweet Rocket?" "I do. It makes you feel whole." Mancy glanced at her. He was a long, brown man, with features between negro and Indian. What you liked very much was his smile. It dropped over his face slowly, like sun on brown hills, out of quiet, cloudy weather. "That's a true saying!" he offered. "That's what I think about heaven. We'll just feel and know that we're well and whole." The school-teacher's mind said: "The negro is a religious character. He is always willing to talk of the Lord and of heaven." "All the little torn bits coming together," finished Mancy. He sat mending the wagon shaft. It came to her, standing watching him, to say something of the distracted and warring earth. His slow smile stole again over his face. "Yes'm. We hurt ourselves right often." "You call it that--hurting oneself?" "Yes'm. What do you call it?" "I don't know.... I suppose it _is_ hurting one's self--suicidal mania!" she thought. "Perhaps all the history I have ever taught has been the story of self hurt and self heal--perhaps we fight our self in Europe and Asia and America. Perhaps, in the tissue wide as space, centers here and centers there are beginning to learn self heal above self hurt--" She stood looking at the mountains while Mancy worked on at the wagon shaft. Presently she said, "You would say that this was a very lonely place, but I have touched a thousand things since I came that run out and touch everywhere!" "Mountains aren't walls," said Mancy.