on, she might have
arrived at the truth. Joan almost wished she would. It would make her
own future task the easier. But Mrs. Phillips, it was clear, was going
to be no help to her.

For her father's sake, she made pretence of eagerness, but as the sea
widened between her and the harbour lights it seemed as if a part of
herself were being torn away from her.

They travelled leisurely through Holland and the Rhine land, and that
helped a little: the new scenes and interests; and in Switzerland they
discovered a delightful little village in an upland valley with just one
small hotel, and decided to stay there for a while, so as to give
themselves time to get their letters. They took long walks and climbs,
returning tired and hungry, looking forward to their dinner and the
evening talk with the few other guests on the veranda. The days passed
restfully in that hidden valley. The great white mountains closed her
in. They seemed so strong and clean.

It was on the morning they were leaving that a telegram was put into her
hands. Mrs. Phillips was ill at lodgings in Folkestone. She hoped that
Joan, on her way back, would come to see her.

She showed the telegram to her father. "Do you mind, Dad, if we go
straight back?" she asked.

"No, dear," he answered, "if you wish it."

"I would like to go back," she said.

CHAPTER XIII

Mrs. Phillips was sitting up in an easy chair near the heavily-curtained
windows when Joan arrived. It was a pleasant little house in the old
part of the town, and looked out upon the harbour. She was startlingly
thin by comparison with what she had been; but her face was still
painted. Phillips would run down by the afternoon train whenever he
could get away. She never knew when he was coming, so she explained; and
she could not bear the idea of his finding her "old and ugly." She had
fought against his wish that she should go into a nursing home; and Joan,
who in the course of her work upon the _Nursing Times_ had acquired some
knowledge of them as a whole, was inclined to agree with her. She was
quite comfortable where she was. The landlady, according to her account,
was a dear. She had sent the nurse out for a walk on getting Joan's
wire, so that they could have a cosy chat. She didn't really want much
attendance. It was her heart. It got feeble now and then, and she had
to keep very still; that was all. Joan told how her father had suffered
for years from much