With care and comfort old Becky was more alert; more suspicious. She was wondering _why_. And Mary felt that at any time she might defeat what daily was gaining a hold on Mary's suspicions. The woman tried hard to shield the secret from her own curiosity, but under all else lay the conviction that it was Nancy's toys which were in peril. And gradually the love that the silent, morose woman felt for the girl absorbed all other emotions. It was like having banked everything on a desired hope she was prepared to defend it. If her suspicions were true, then all the more must the secret be hid. And so in November Doris and Nancy went to New York and Mary, apparently unmoved, saw them depart while she counted anew her assumed duties. There was The Peak--and with winter to complicate her duties, it loomed ominously. "And I'll have to back letters for old Jed." Mary had promised to write for the old man and to read from the Bible to him, as Nancy had always done. "And keep the old man alive as well." Mary sighed wearily. "And when there's a minute to rest--keep my own place decent." The cabin was the one bright thought and, because of that which had made the cabin possible, Mary bowed her back to her burdens. "A strange woman is Mary," Doris confided to Nancy; "nothing seems to make any impression upon her." Nancy opened her lovely blue eyes wide at this. "Why, Aunt Dorrie," she replied, "Mary would die for us--and never mention it. She's made that still, faithful way." Doris smiled, but did not change her mind. The people of the hills were never to be to her what they had been to Sister Angela--her people. CHAPTER XX "_It Is Felicity on Her Wings._" The old New York house was once more opened and the fountain set free. Birds sang and flowers bloomed, but Joan was not there and for a blank but silent moment both Doris and Nancy wondered if the lack were to defeat them. The moment was appalling but it passed. Felicity brooded over them and her wings did not droop. Martin, with his sound common sense, came to the fore among the first. He was never more alert. His nephew, Clive Cameron, was entrenched in Martin's office and home--his name, alone, shone on the new sign. "I've flung you in neck and crop, Bud, because I believe in you and have told my patients so. Sink or swim, but you've got clear water to do it in. I'll hang around--make my city headquarters with you; lend myself to you; but for the rest I'm going to do exactly what I want to do--for a time." Cameron regarded his uncle as the young often do the older--yearningly, covetously, tenderly. "I--I think I understand about Miss Fletcher, Uncle Dave," he said. "I had hoped you did, boy. And remember this--it's only when a woman gets so into your system that she cannot be purged out, that you dare to be sure." "But, Uncle Dave, the knowledge--what has it done for you?" "You'll never be able to understand that, Bud, until you're past the age of asking the question."