r her own lonely nature in giving comfort.

Joyce, in going to Isa for protection, would in no wise interfere with
her father's welcome at the tavern. Leon would arrange that, and bring
about a brilliant climax for himself; at least he always had done so in
emergencies.

Crouching under the tree, as the sun went down behind Beacon Hill, Joyce
saw the future unfold itself. There was nothing to do but go to Isa.
Then Leon would, by his subtlety, make it seem that she had come there
to get ready for her marriage to Jude. He'd even arrange, perhaps, the
marriage, and so clutch Jude and her closer to his power. He'd smooth
the way for her father, too, and hush tongues and smile--oh, how he
would smile on them all!--and no one would ever know.

The sun went down and the stars came out. Still the girl sat there; but
presently a healthy appetite was the call that roused her. She had not
eaten since noon of the day before. She was weak and suffering. She
thought with a kind of comfort that perhaps it was hunger alone that
was now causing her mental and physical agony. After she had eaten, all
would be well with her. She could control Jude and her own fate. She
would never let any one think--Gaston above all--that she was not
mistress of her own shabby little life.

She got up dizzily, and was shocked to find how heavy the basket was;
still, with a constant shifting from hand to hand, she could manage it.

Lola's giddy little lark song sprang to memory out of the ashes of her
hurt and pain, and rose and rippled in the fragrant darkness as she
entered the Long Meadow.

Beacon Hill stood gloomily to the west, and above it gleamed a
particularly bright star. Across Long Meadow the lights in the houses
flickered from open windows, and the Black Cat's glare seemed to control
her motions. It drew her on and on. It was to play a part in her future
as it did in the futures of all--sooner or later.

Wearily she mounted the steps of the tavern and went to the side door
that opened into whatever there was of privacy in Leon's establishment.
Isa was washing the supper dishes. She was a tall, gaunt woman with a
kindly glance that Nature had, for a safeguard, hidden under heavy black
brows.

"You, Joyce?" she said, going on with her task. "I thought maybe it was
some one else."

"Isa," the girl stepped cautiously forward, "I want to tell you
something."

The gathering hilarity in the tavern made this moment secure. Isa put
down he