do what she wanted to
do, rather than what she, otherwise, might feel she should do--added to
her enjoyment.

From above she heard the voices of the children and Mary's quiet
intervention now and again.

Then Joan laughed, and the sound struck Doris as if she had never heard
it before. What a peculiar laugh it was--for a child! Silver clear,
musical, but with a note of defiance, recklessness, and yes, almost
abandon.

Joan was teasing Nancy about her dolls--Joan detested dolls, she
declared that it was their stupid stare that made her dislike them. She
only wanted live things: dogs and cats, not even birds--she was sorry
for birds. Nancy's dolls were to her "children," and she was pleading
now for an especial favourite and Joan was praying--rather
mockingly--that God would let it get smashed because of "the proud
nose."

"But God makes children's noses!" Nancy was urging.

"Well! He don't make dolls," Joan insisted, and proceeded with her
petition until Nancy's wails brought Mary upon the scene.

Doris listened. She could not hear what Mary said, but presently peace
reigned above-stairs and the pelting storm and the book resumed their
power.

It might have been a half hour later when she heard soft, stealthy
footsteps in the hall. She sat quite still, believing that one of the
children was hiding and that the other would be on the trail
immediately. The small intruder passed through the library and went into
the sunken room.

Doris, herself unseen, looked from behind her shelter and saw that it
was Joan, and before she could call to her she was held silent by what
the child proceeded to do.

Deftly, quickly she disrobed and stood in her pretty, childish nakedness
in the warm room.

For a moment she poised and listened, then she stepped over the rim of
the fountain, took the exact attitude of one of the figures, and with
rapt, upturned face became rigid.

It was wonderfully lovely, but decidedly startling. Still Doris waited.

The water dripped over the small body; Joan's lips were moving in some
weird incantation, and then with the light all gone from her pretty face
she came out of the basin, pulled her clothing on as best she could, and
flung herself tragically in a deep chair.

For a moment Doris thought the child was crying, but she was not. Her
limp little body relaxed and the eyes were sad.

Doris rose and went to the steps.

"Why are you here alone, Joan?" she asked.

Quite simple the reply