needs to know. All other larnin' would harm her, and no Popish folk
ain't going to tech what's mine."

So that was what kept them apart!

Sister Angela drew back. For a moment she did not understand; then she
smiled and bent nearer.

"You think us Catholics? We are not; but if we were it would be just the
same. We are friendly women who really want to be neighbourly and
helpful."

"You all tote a cross!" Becky was interested.

"Yes. We bear the cross--it is a symbol of what we try to do--you need
not be afraid of us, and if there is ever a time when you need us--come
to Ridge House."

After that Becky had apparently disappeared, but often and often when
the night was stormy, or dark, she had walked stealthily down the trail
and taken her place by the windows of Ridge House. She knew the sunny,
orderly kitchen in which such strange food was prepared; she knew the
long, narrow dining room with its quaint carvings and painted words on
walls and fireplace; she knew the tiny room where the Sisters knelt and
sang. One or two of the tunes ran in Becky's brain like haunting
undercurrents; but best of all, Becky knew the living room upon whose
generous hearth the fire burned from early autumn until the bloom of
dogwood, azalea, and laurel filled the space from which the ashes were
reluctantly swept. Every rug and chair and couch was familiar to the
burning eyes. The rows of bookshelves, the long, narrow table and--The