"Doris, I think you can plan on three months in New York next winter. My boy is coming on from the West. I'm going to take my shingle down and hang his up."

"Really, David? Take yours _down_?" Doris looked dubious.

"Yes. I'll stay around with him, but I'm going to put my shack on the map right under Blowing Rock. I've brought the plans to show you."

Martin took them from his pocket and sat down beside Doris, and while they became absorbed, Nancy was climbing her way up Thunder Trail.

Before she realized that she had come so far, she was in the open, the sunlight almost blinding her. She started back and screwed her eyes to make sure that she saw aright. Not only was she out of the woods but she was on the edge of a trim garden plot; there was a dilapidated cabin just beyond it, and an ancient creature standing in the doorway.

At first Nancy could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. She had never seen any one so old, and the eyes in the shrunken face were like burning holes--caverns with fire in them!

Nancy was too stunned to move or speak. Her knowledge of the hills forbade the usual fear, but a supernatural terror seized her and she waited for the old woman--she decided it was a woman--to make the first advance. This the woman presently did. She turned, and with trembling haste took up a rusty spade by the door; she shuffled toward a corner of the opening and began to dig at a mound that was covered with loose earth. Weakly, fearfully, the claw-like hands worked while Nancy stood fascinated and bewildered. Finally the old woman came toward her and there was a tragic pathos on the wrinkled face that tended to quiet the girl's rising fear. The cracked voice was pleading:

"How did yo' get out?" The words came anxiously and with difficulty, like the words of a deaf mute that had been taught to speak mechanically.

Nancy smiled weakly and looked silently at the speaker.

"Been tryin' to find hit?" the strained voice went on. "Yo' better lie still, Zalie--yo' larned enough, chile!"

And then, because the rigid girl did not speak, the old woman drew nearer.

Nancy, believing herself in the presence of a harmlessly insane creature, rallied her courage and sought to soothe, not excite, the woman.

"I'm lost," she faltered. "I am sorry to have disturbed you; I am going now."

She half turned, keeping her eyes on her companion.

"Come--set a bit," pleaded the crackling voice; "come warm yo'self before I tuck yo' up again. How cold yo' little hands are! Po' little Zalie, jes' naturally--tryin' to find hit."

There are limits of fear beyond which, for self-preservation, a kind of calm strength lies that suggests ways of safety. Nancy did not run or cry out, she did not withdraw her icy hands from the brown, claw-like fingers that held them; she even smiled a faint, ghastly smile that rea.s.sured the old woman. Her eyes softened; her voice almost crooned.

"Us-all is safe--no one comes nigh--it's comfortin' ter tech yo', Zalie, an' hit is well placed. Through all the years I done wanted to tell yo'; I've said it by yo' grave many's the time, chile----" Becky waited a moment. She looked cautiously about the sun-lighted place and peered into the gloom of the forest-edge, then she looked again at Nancy, while her thin hand pointed to the mound under the tree across the bit of open. Nancy shuddered.

"What is--that?" she gasped.

"Yo' little grave, Zalie--yo' little bed. I 'tend it loving and proper; I take a look-in onct so often--but yo' is cute, like yo' was when yo'

stole out in the moonshine to larn. You done got out yo' grave when I wasn't watching. Come, now, let me put yo' back!"

The old woman turned, and in that instant Nancy fled like a spirit.

Noiselessly, swiftly she disappeared. She heard the crackling voice behind her:

"Jes' creep back by yourself, eh, Zalie?" And then came the sound of metal patting down the loose earth on the mound by the solemn trees.

Nancy could never tell what occurred on her descent from Thunder Peak.

When she reached The Gap, she found that her dogs had strayed from her: they had either dropped behind or run before. She was not exhausted. She felt strong and calm. The adventure was a.s.suming a thrilling proportion now she was at a safe distance. But she had no intention of telling Doris. Oddly enough, she felt the need of keeping it secret. She shivered as she recalled the touch of the claw-fingers and the sound of the dry, hard voice. She had a growing sense of uncleanness, now that the shock was wearing off. It almost seemed that a poison had been left upon her that was eating its way into depths of her being. She was afraid that someone would know; she trembled when old Jed remarked:

"Dis yere little ole pup don slink back like he seed a hant and he had burrs stickin' to his sorry-lookin' hide--seems he was off the scent. No 'count!"

Jed gave the hound a push with his foot, but he had set Nancy's nerves tingling.

"I lost the scent myself," she said, striving for calmness. And then relying upon the old man's simplicity she asked, pointing across The Gap:

"What did you say was the name of that peak, Uncle Jed?" She wanted to make very sure!

The old man raised his bleary eyes and looked troubled. He was conscious of something stirring in the dark of his mind.

"Thunder," he replied, then he laughed, and the gold in his few remaining teeth glistened. Cackling and shuffling along beside Nancy, he muttered--his mind again on old Becky:

"Her--as was--or her as is! Maybe she ain't a _was_--'pears like she can't be an _is_." Then he grew calmer and faced Nancy. "Stay away from Thunder, chile. 'Tain't safe, Thunder ain't--only fer hants."

"I'll stay away, Uncle Jed," Nancy promised fervently, and tried to laugh off the foolish, superst.i.tious fear that the old man's words had aroused.

Jed went off muttering--he was strangely disturbed.

As the first impression of her adventure wore off Nancy was surprised to find that a new fear and restlessness oppressed her. It was like the after effects of a blow that had stunned her.

She slept badly--a terrific electric storm swept through The Gap and there seemed, to the frightened girl in the west chamber, noises never heard before. Creaking steps in the hall; calls in the wind and sharp summons as the branches of the trees lashed the windows and the blazing lightning shattered the darkness with blinding flashes.

Nancy crept downstairs the next morning pale and shaken. She rallied, however, when she saw Doris.

Doris was greatly affected by electric storms and was lying on a couch by the hearth. Doctor Martin was sitting beside her, and the little breakfast tray, laid for the three, was drawn close.

They ate the meal quietly, and then Martin took up a book to read aloud while Nancy went to her loom.

She huddled over it--there was no other word to describe her crouching, lax att.i.tude; her face was drawn and haggard. Doris watched her; she was not listening to Martin. Suddenly she felt a kind of shock as she realized that she was thinking of Nancy as an old woman!

As the spring holds all the promise of autumn in its delicate shading, so youth often depicts the time on ahead when line and colour will take on the aspect of age.

It was startling. Doris almost cried aloud. Nancy old! Nancy lean and shrivelled with her pretty back bent to--the burden of life!

Then Doris laughed nervously, and Martin started. The book he was reading from was no laughing matter.

"Forgive me, David--I was not listening; I was--planning. You know how agile a mind can be after--a bad headache?" This was not convincing to Martin and he scowled.

"What were you planning?" he asked, and Nancy at her wheel turned her head.

"Nancy's winter in town. She must have loads of pretty things, and I will open the old house--perhaps we can lure Joan also, and have the time of our lives. How would you like that Nan, girl?"

The tone was pleading, almost imploring. Doris had a sense of having wronged the girl, somehow.

"Oh, Aunt Dorrie, I should love it!" Nancy came across the room, all suggestion of age gone. "That is--if it will not harm you, dear."

"I think it would do you both good," Martin spoke earnestly; "I begin to realize what you once said, Doris. One has to have the country in his blood to be of the country. You must have change and"--turning to Nancy--"give this child a chance to--to show off."

He reached out and pinched Nancy's pale cheek.

"Run out," he commanded, suddenly; "run out into the sunshine and forget the storm. You're exactly like your aunt--conquer it, conquer it, child, while conquering is part of the programme."

Nancy managed a smile, leaned and kissed Doris, waved a salute to Martin, and fled from the room.