"I don't know, Nan." Joan was looking into the fire--seeking; seeking. "Things that quiet you and Aunt Dorrie just drive me on to the rocks. I feel as if I'd be wrecked if I didn't steer well out into the open. And when I get as far as that, I know that I couldn't find my way out even if--if everything let go of me. I suppose I would sink. This isn't my place, Nan, but I don't know where my place is! I feel sure I have a place, everyone has--but where is mine?" There was desperation in the words, the desperation of helpless youth. No perspective, no light or shade, but terrible vision. "Joan, darling, why can you not wait until you see the way?" Nancy was prepared now for battle. "That's it, Nan. I can't. All I can do is to push off the rocks--then I'll have to sink or swim. This is killing me!" Joan flung her head back as if she were choking. And just then Mary came into the room. A gray shawl, home-spun--it was made from the wool of Mary's own sheep--was clutched over her thin body; a huge quilted hood--Mary herself had quilted it--half hid her dark, expressionless face. "I met the postman," she announced, "as I came along. He give me this!" Mary held a letter out to Joan and passed from the room. The moment, while Joan glanced at the letter, had power to grip Nancy's imagination and fill it with a vision. As sure as she ever saw anything, she saw Joan going away! Going away as she had never gone before. Going to a Far Country. "Whom is the letter from?" she faltered, and Joan tore open the envelope while her eyes drank in the words. "It is from Sylvia Reed, Nan. Her dream has come true. She has her studio--she wants me!" "Joan, you will not go--you must not!" All that Nancy dared to put in her plea she put in it then. "Why not?" asked Joan impressed. "Why not, Nan?" "Aunt Dorrie----" Nancy's words ended in a sob. "Aunt Dorrie shall decide." And with that Joan, her face radiant, her breath coming quick, walked from the room and on, on to the little chapel upstairs. Doris was sitting by the window. The day was going to be clear at its close, and a rift in the sullen clouds showed the gold behind; the light lay in a straight line across the chapel floor. Doris was not in a depressed mood. She often sat for an hour in the quiet place. She took her tenderest treasures of thought there. She had been thinking that afternoon of David Martin. How wise he was! What a friend! How he understood her! How unworthy she was of the richness that flooded her life! It was then that Joan came in. She did not go close to Doris--the physical touch was not the first impulse with either of them. "Aunt Dorrie, I have a letter from Sylvia Reed."