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.