zzled. "It's lovely, of course. Your voice always
is," she said loyally. "But somehow it doesn't _ring_. The glad sound
has gone out of it. That's it!"

Patricia had been knowing it herself ever since she had realized that
Tancredi was only keeping her for friendship's sake, and it had been
almost too much to bear alone. Without thinking, she blurted it out.

"I can't really sing, after all, Ju," she told her passionately.
"Tancredi is only keeping me on for this quarter and then she'll let me
down."

Judith was aghast, but she kept her head. "When did she tell you?" she
demanded sharply.

"She hasn't just exactly told me in words," confessed Patricia. "But
she's shown me very clearly. And Madame Milano hasn't ever asked to see
me again, though I know she's seen Rosamond twice since I went to the
'Hour' at her hotel. If I hadn't been with Bruce and Elinor to hear her
in opera every time she sang, I'd never known she was in New York at
all."

Judith was very white and still. At last she said with conviction, "I
think you're making a mistake, Miss Pat. I don't believe it's true that
you aren't going to be a success. You know how you tried and tried to
make yourself ready and fit for the music, and I don't believe that all
that hard work is going to be wasted."

Patricia smiled with the new knowledge that had so recently come to her.
"Oh, Judy dear, you are too young to understand," she said with serene
satisfaction; "but it will not be wasted. One must suffer to grow glad."

Judith opened her eyes. "Now I know you're queer," she declared with a
wag of her head that made her uneven mane quiver. "You didn't use to
talk such stuff."

Patricia wanted to tell her it wasn't stuff, but somehow she could not
find the right words to explain her feelings, and so she left it go,
feeling very old and wise indeed beside the crude, inexperienced Judith.

They had a very good time together, nevertheless, and Judith made
friends with the girls in a way that pleased and surprised Patricia.
"That kid sister of yours is a wonder," said the slangy ones, and the
others declared that Judith was a dear. Altogether, Patricia had never
enjoyed Judith's company so much.

"I'm sorry you can't come to the dance," she told her with regret, but
Judith did not care in the least, she said. She was going to spend the
night with Rita Stanford, with whom she had struck up a close
friendship--the first that Patricia had known her to make.

She