The fact was that Doris was rekindling the past—the past that lay back of the years of plain duty.
"I have not overlooked, Mary," Doris strove to get under the crust of reserve and find something with which to deal emotionally, "the years of devotion to us all. You have made no social ties for yourself; have not taken any pleasures outside—what would you like to do now, Mary?"
"Go home."
"Go—home? Why—where is home, Mary?"
The pathos struck Doris—the pathos of those who, having served others, find themselves stranded at last.
"Down to Silver Gap." As she spoke, Mary was hearing already the sound of the river on the rocks and seeing the spring flowers in the crevices of the hills.
"You mean, go back to Ridge House? You could not stay there alone, Mary, with old Jed."
Mary stared blankly—she was further back than Ridge House.
"I've been saving," she went slowly on, "all the years. I reckon I have most enough to buy the cabin where us-all was born." The tone and words took on the mountain touch. Doris was fascinated.
"You mean your father's old cabin?" she asked.