"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?"
"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!"