"None of us will die, Nan. We all _feel_ deathly, but this is--life." At ten Joan had a distinct comprehension of the difference between living and life. To a certain extent you controlled the former; the latter "got you." "I--I don't want life," wailed Nancy, "I want Aunt Dorrie." "But life--wants you!" Somewhere Joan had heard that, or read it--the old library was no hidden place to her--and she brought it forth now with emphasis. Nancy made no reply. In that mood Joan would show no mercy. It was when she was suffering the most that Joan could harden and frighten Nancy. She was lashing herself to duty when she sent the whip cracking. Martin accompanied Doris to Dondale. He was "Uncle David" to the children and part of their happy lives. "Take--take good care of Aunt Dorrie," Nancy pleaded with him at parting, her poor little face distorted by the effort she was making. "You bet!" Martin bent and kissed the child. He approved of Nancy. Martin could never patiently endure complications, and Nancy was simple and direct. Joan was another matter. At the last she was in high spirits. "It's going to be great," she whispered to Doris. "All the girls and the new games and the comings home for holidays and--and everything." It was after they were alone that Nancy called down extra suffering upon herself. "Aunt Dorrie will think you did not care, Joan, and Uncle David scowled. You make people think queer things about you." Joan turned and fixed Nancy with flaming eyes. "I want Aunt Dorrie to think everything is all right--you didn't! You did not cheat her. I did--for her sake." "Perhaps," Nancy sometimes struck a high note, unsuspectingly, "perhaps Aunt Dorrie would rather _have_ you care." Joan regarded her intently and then replied: "Well, then, you're all right, Nan!" The tone, more than the words, stung Nancy. It hurt her to have any one misunderstand, but it often occurred to her that it hurt more to be understood! In the train en route to New York Doris sat very quiet, thinking of the two little faces she was leaving--forever! It amounted to that--as every woman knows. Nothing but their faces held as the miles were dashed past--faces that portrayed the spiritual essence of the old, dear years--faces that would turn, from now on, to others, and take on new expressions, bear the mark of another's impress. "Well, thank heaven," Doris presently broke out, "I haven't been a vamp mother, David." Martin came from behind his newspaper. "And because of that, Doris," he said, "you will have those girls coming back to you. They will want to come." He was thinking of Nancy. "Yes. I have a sure feeling about that." Then: "How splendid it was of Joan to act as she did! She'd rather we thought her hard than to let us see her pain." Martin stared. "You mean Nancy?" he asked. "No. Nan, bless her, cannot disguise herself, but Joan can! Joan will suffer through her strength."