CHAPTER XXIII
"No one can travel that road for you, you must travel it for yourself."
David Martin came into the living room of Ridge House bringing, as it seemed, the Spring with him. He left the door open and sat down. He was in rough clothes; he was brown and rugged. He was building, with his own hands, much of the cabin at Blowing Rock. He had never been more content in his life. He often paused, as he was now doing, and thought of it.
The hard winter's work was over and Martin felt the spring in his blood as he had not felt it in many a year.
Things were going to suit him—and they had had a way of eluding him in the past. Perhaps, he thought, because he had always wanted them just his way.
Somewhere, above stairs, Doris was singing, and Nancy from another part of the house was calling out little joyous remarks.
"Two telegrams in one day, Aunt Doris. Such riches!"
Doris paused in her song long enough to reply:
"Joan may come any day, Nan, dear. It is so like her to act, once she decides."
Martin, sitting by the hearth, reflected upon the injustice of Prodigal Sons and Daughters—but he smiled.