r focus. Joan did her best to appease her. She strove by every
art of her simple mind to interest her and divert her thought and mood
into channels less harsh. But she had little success, and it quickly
became apparent that the lapse of time since her going from home had
aggravated rather than improved the strange mental condition under
which her aunt labored.

After the first greetings, and Joan had conducted her to her room,
which she had spent infinite time and thought in arranging, the old
woman remained there to rest until supper-time. Then she reappeared,
and, by the signs of her worn, ascetic face, the cruel hollows about
those adamant eyes, the drawn cheeks and furrowed brow, the girl
realized that rest with her was not easy to achieve. She saw every
sign in her now that in the old days she had learned to dread so
acutely.

However, there was no help for it. She knew it was not in the nature
of that busy brain to rest, and one day the breaking-point would be
reached, and the end would come suddenly.

But at supper-time there was a definite change in her aunt's mental
attitude. Whereas before her whole thought had been for the outpouring
of her complaint at her personal discomforts, now all that seemed to
have been forgotten in something which held her alert and watchful.
Joan had no thought or suspicion of the working of the swift-moving
brain. Only was she pleased, almost delighted at the questioning and
evident interest in her own affairs.

The meal was nearly over. Aunt Mercy, as was her habit, had eaten
sparingly, while she alternately listened to the details of the girl's
farm life, the manner of the gold camp, the history of her arrival
there and the many vicissitudes which had followed, and voiced the
questions of her inquisitorial mind. Now she leant back in her chair
and slowly sipped a cup of strong, milkless tea, while her eyes
watched the girl's expressive face.

Joan had purposely avoided mention of the many details which had had
such power to disturb her in the past. She had no desire to afford a
reopening of the scene she had endured that morning at St. Ellis. But
Mercy Lascelles was not to be thwarted by any such simple subterfuge.

"You've told me a lot of what doesn't matter," she said sharply, after
a pause, while she sipped her tea. "Now tell me something that does."
She glanced down at the flashing diamond rings upon her fingers. "By
your letter you have not escaped from those things