"Aunt Dorrie, Nancy is the belonging kind. No matter how many places and people share her she will always belong to us and the hills. She told me that before she went. She meant it, too. She'll finish the weaving quite naturally, soon--New York is not far." Doris gave a soft laugh. Almost she resented the constant tone of comfort, Joan's attitude of authority. "No; it seems nearer and nearer all the time--since my strength has returned. We will have part of the winter in New York and Nan and Ken will be coming here, and there is your music, Joan!" Doris assumed authority and Joan submitted sweetly. "Yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you and I will scour these hills and get acquainted with our people and have trips abroad, perhaps. It is simply splendid--the stretch on ahead." The sun-lighted room was still radiant with the decorations of Nancy's wedding. Tall jars of roses woodbine and "rhoderdeners," as old Jed called them, were everywhere. Nancy had only departed two days before. "What a charming wedding it was!" Doris mused, patting the loom; "every time I think of it something new and unusual recurs." Joan rubbed away and laughed gaily. "Father Noble looked like a precious old saint," she said. "I declare when he told about Mary I was almost afraid he'd be translated before he had a chance to marry Nan." How little Joan realized that she was touching upon a mighty thing; how little either she or Doris were really ever to know. Doris came to the hearth and sat down in a deep chair, her face had suddenly grown serious. "I was thinking of that incident," she said. "Joan, I have always misjudged Mary. She has always puzzled me. I have thought her hard and selfish--the people here have thought her mean." Doris paused, and Joan looked around and remarked: "She's a blessed trump. Nan always understood Mary better than I; Mary liked Nan the best of all, but I'm going to cultivate Mary. There is something about her like these hidden words--it must be brought out." "To think of her caring for and loving that poor, deserted creature on that lonely peak all this time!" Doris went back to the story. "Father Noble says the trail up there is the worst on the mountain, yet Mary went every day. She mended the cabin and kept the old woman clean and clothed and happy--to the very end. Think of her alone in that cabin at night when the poor soul passed away! Mary was always so timid, too, and superstitious--and we never suspecting!" "And then," Joan took up the thread, "those ten miles to get Father Noble so that there might be a proper funeral, and Nancy's wedding having to wait while they saw the thing properly through. Oh! Aunt Dorrie, it's like a glorious old comedy with so much humanity in it that it hurts. Can you not just _see_ that funeral as Father Noble described it?" Joan stood up, her eyes shining; the polishing cloth held out daintily from the pretty blue gown.