"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.