"Is it quite safe?" she questioned Jed.
"Dat chile is as safe as she is with Gawd," Jed reverently replied—and perhaps she was, for God's ways are often like the trails of the high places—hidden until one treads them.
Nancy, by May, had lost all fear of the solitude, and with seeking eyes she wandered farther and higher day by day. She brought back wonderful flowers and ferns to Ridge House; she grew eloquent about the "lost cabins" as she called them, secreted from any gaze but that which, like hers, sought them out. She took gifts to the old people and timid children.
"It's such fun, Aunt Dorrie," she explained, "to win the baby things. At first they are so frightened. They run and hide—they never cry or scream, and bye and bye they come to meet me; they bring me little treasures, the darlings! One gave me a tiny chicken just hatched."
But beyond the last cabin that Nancy conquered was a hard, rocky trail that led, apparently, to the sharp crest called by Uncle Jed Thunder Peak.
"Does any one live on Thunder Peak?" asked Nancy of Jed.
The old man wrinkled his brow. He had not thought of Becky Adams for years; at best the woman had been but a landmark, and landmarks had a habit of disappearing.
"No, there ain't no reason for folks to live on Thunder Peak. It's a right sorry place for living."
Jed found comfort, now he came to think of it, in knowing that Becky had departed.
"Whar?" he asked himself, when Nancy, followed by two of her dogs, went away; "whar dat old Aunt Becky disappeared to?" Then he pulled himself together and went to deliver the message Nancy had confided to him.