And then Joan, mentally, turned her back on the past. With that power she had for holding to the thing she desired, the thing she wanted to make true, she laughed her merry, carefree laugh--she recalled only the joyous, amusing incidents and she watched with hungry, loving eyes the effect she was creating. It was while this was going on that Mary came upon the piazza to announce luncheon. There were days when no one saw Mary, when her cabin was closed and locked; but after such absences she came to Ridge House and worked with a fervour that flavoured of apology. She gazed long upon Joan before she spoke. It was not surprise she showed, but a slow understanding. "Miss Joan," she said at last, "seems like you ain't got the world by the tail like you uster have." Joan threw her head back and laughed. "No, Mary," she presently replied, "it swung so fast that I fell off--but I'll catch hold soon." The quiet little luncheon in the quaint dining room did much to restore the long-past relations of Joan with the family. Uncle Jed came in and chuckled with delight. The old man lived mostly in the past now, and followed Mary like a poor crumpled shadow. What held the two together was difficult to understand--but it was the kinship of the hills, the stolid sense of familiarity. After the meal was over Joan wandered about through the living rooms for a few moments, touching Nancy's loom, but speaking seldom of Nancy. "I want to hear all about it from her," she explained; and Doris, with Joan's affairs chiefly in her thought, referred merely to Nancy's happiness, their perfect sympathy with it; and if Kenneth's name was mentioned, Joan did not notice it. At last she went up to her room to rest. "Quite as if I had never been away, Aunt Doris," she said, "and you don't mind if I take Cuff? The poor little chap has had so many changes that I fear for his nerves!" Joan went upstairs to the west wing chamber singing a gay little song--her own voice seemed to hold her to the safe, happy present--so she sang. She paused at the door of her room to read the words carved there long ago by Sister Constance: =And the Hills Shall Bring Peace= It was like someone speaking a welcome. "Oh! it is all so dear," Joan murmured, "how could it ever have seemed dull!" Flowers filled the vases, and there was a small, fragrant fire on the hearth--a mere thing of beauty, there was no need of it, for the windows were open to the gentle spring day. Joan slipped into a loose gown and then stood in the middle of the room leisurely taking in the comfort and joy of every proof of love that she saw. On the desk by the window lay a pile of unopened letters--she took them up. They were the letters from Doris and Nancy which had been returned from Chicago. Pitiful things that had been so hopefully sent forth only to come back like blighted hopes!