"Of course," she once whispered to Mary, "I would love all the things that Joan loves and wants, but my duty to Aunt Dorrie is bigger than they, Mary. I am sure if Joan saw things as I do, she would act as I am acting. But we are keeping Joan from knowing." "Why?" The sharp word startled Nancy--was Mary disapproving? "Aunt Dorrie and Uncle David think best, Mary." Mary touched upon the hidden hardness in Nancy's softness and retreated. And during that red-and-gold autumn, their first in The Gap, Doris was soothed strangely to a state of perfect relaxation--a state not pleasing to Joan, and rather puzzling to David Martin, who postponed a proposed trip to the West until he felt sure of Doris's health. It seemed that, having dropped the old life, Doris was not merely willing to step into a new one--she was drifting in. Without resistance she floated. She would lie for a whole afternoon on the porch watching the play of colour on The Rock. She smiled, recalling, rather vaguely to be sure, the superstitions concerning The Rock. It was all delightfully restful and beautiful and not a care in the world! Mary and Nancy saw to every detail. Joan was frankly interested in every phase of the experience. "It might be," mused Doris from her pillows, "that having left everything to that Power that does control, I am to have my heart's deep desire--keep both Joan and Nancy!" CHAPTER IX "_I count life just a stuff to try the Soul's strength on. Learn, nor count the pang; dare, never grudge the throe._" No one but Mary, apparently, saw what was to happen. It was the old nursery problem re-acted. Joan had tired of her game, had used all the material at hand, and was burning to be on the adventurous trail. The old restlessness and defiance were singing in the girl's blood; mockery rang in her voice and that wonderful laugh of hers. She was about to smash into the safe joyousness of things as they were! She threatened Nancy's toys. And Mary, alone, took heed. Joan herself was unconscious. She always was of her changing mood; she simply realized that she was lost; somehow, astray. And Nancy, looking mutely in Mary's eyes, seemed to say: "It will all be so lonely; so terrible with Joan gone!" That was it. The old fear of, or for, Joan had materialized--it was Life with Joan left out! "And why should one have so much and the other so little?" asked Mary of that deep knowledge in her busy brain. "Why shouldn't they share alike--and twins at that!" Then Mary stopped short in her thinking. Her own words took her back, back to a dark night--she was peering, aided by a dim light from within, at a baby lying in the arms of---- Mary drew her breath sharp; her thin, flat bosom heaved and her fingers clutched her gown. David Martin had so far classified his perplexity concerning Doris as to name it "Southern fever." "Hookworm?" Joan broke in gleefully. Martin frowned but did not reply.