bear that you should condemn me," Joyce went on, clinging
to her for consolation. "It seemed such a simple thing--it _was_."

"Yes, of course," Honor agreed against her judgment. "Only it would be
hateful that you should be talked about by the people here--as Mrs. Fox
is, for example."

"I should loathe it!--for I am not like her. You don't think that for a
moment?"

"Never!--that is why I'll not have you misjudged," said Honor kissing
her wet cheek.

"Why are people so horrid? I like Captain Dalton. He is so nice--so
different from what people think him--agreeable! He took my rose, and I
pinned it in his coat. He showed me how I should play the _Liebestraum_,
and----"

"He--took--your rose?"

"Yes. It was in my dress ... and was so sweet--and he said I should be
called 'Joy.' He is going to show me how to drive his motor-car so that
I may take Ray by surprise one day. I must go out more than I do, and
not worry so much about Baby for he is here to look after him. Oh! he is
very kind--surely he never meant to neglect Elsie Meek?"

"He knows best about that--but, Joyce," Honor was strangely agitated and
hid her telltale eyes in a cloud of Joyce's sunny hair, "you will never
do anything that you cannot tell your husband?"

"How do you mean? I always tell Ray everything."

"That is all. He will advise you what it is best not to do. It is no
business of mine."

"And I'll always tell you, too," the little wife said affectionately.

But Honor mentally decided it would be better for her not to hear
anything more about Captain Dalton's visits. "I don't count--I am a mere
outsider."

"You do. You are such a great help to me. I wish I had half your manner
and self-confidence."

Their talk reverted to Elsie Meek, and Joyce learned something of the
mother's grief. She was anxious to call immediately at the Mission to
offer her condolences, and decided to attend the funeral which was to
take place that afternoon. It was eventually settled that Mrs. Bright
should call for her in the dogcart, and Honor would ride.

Consequently, when Ray Meredith motored in that afternoon, his wife was
absent attending Elsie Meek's funeral, a simple ceremony at a tiny
cemetery on the Mission property. The coffin, made of packing cases and
covered with black calico, was carried by pastors, and the service was
conducted by Mr. Meek himself, who scourged himself to perform the
pathetic task as a penance to his soul.

It was dusk when