Nancy was weaving at the window--Mary had taught her, and she gave the impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood. Around the fire lay four hound puppies--they had taken the place of dolls in Nancy's affections. As Joan entered the dogs raised their absurd heads and with their flappy ears and padded paws patted the floor in welcome. "Where is Aunt Dorrie?" asked Joan, poising herself on the arm of a deep chair. "In the chapel," Nancy replied, bent over the snarl she had made of woof and warp. "I wish Aunt Dorrie would have that room sealed!" Joan spoke ill-naturedly; "I know it's haunted. If we don't look out the ghosts will ooze over the whole house. Ooh!" Nancy did not answer but set the treadle to its duty. The clacking noise emphasized Joan's nervousness. "Aunt Dorrie doesn't know what to do here--that's why she takes to the chapel. That's why everyone takes to chapels." Nancy broke her thread and Joan laughed. "I wonder why Aunt Dorrie came here like a dear, silly old pioneer?" The laugh still persisted in the mocking words. "It's--it's quite the thing," Nancy said, fatuously, "to have country places. I think it's wonderful." "You may not be able to help being a snob, Nan, but don't be a prig." Joan's words struck hurtingly. Then suddenly her mood changed. "Forgive me, snow-child," she whispered, going close to Nancy. "I'm a beast. Isn't it queer to be conscious, now and then, of the beast in you?" "Please don't, Joan, dear. Please don't talk and act so." Nancy's eyes were blinded by tears. "Very well, then, I will be good." Joan flung herself in a chair and presently asked curiously: "Nan, what are you going to do when you've done all the things down here millions of times?" "There will always be new duties," Nancy ventured. "Duties! Oh! Nan, surely you're too young to play with duties--you'll hurt yourself." The mockery again entered in. Just then Jed stumbled into the room with an armful of wood. His bleared eyes clung to Nancy's face and he nearly fell over a rug. When he went out Joan seemed to follow him. She spoke musingly as if voicing her thoughts: "It's terrible for anything as old as that to be running around," she said. "It isn't decent. He ought to be tucked up in his nice little grave. He looks as if he'd been forgotten." "Joan, you are wicked--you make me afraid!" Nancy came from the loom and crouched by Joan. "Snow-child, again forgive me!" Joan bent and drew Nancy's fair head to her knee. "But oh! I am so--so utterly lost." "Joan, what is it? What is the matter?"