house. Mrs. Tweksbury and I have planned rather
a brilliant campaign."

And then came that bleak March day--Joan and Nancy were to graduate in
June--when the hurrying undercurrent in Doris Fletcher's life brought
her to a sharp turn in the stream.

She was sitting in the pleasant old room before a freshly made fire; the
fountain trickled and splashed, the birds sang, defying the outdoor
gloom and chill, and a letter from Miss Phillips lay upon her lap--a
letter that had made her smile then frown. She took it up and read it
again.

"I am deeply interested in your nieces," so Miss Phillips wrote;
"naturally a woman dealing, as I have for years, with youth in the
making, is both blunted and sharpened. Young girls fall into types--are
comfortably classified and regulated for the most part. Occasionally,
however, the rule has its exceptions."

Then Miss Phillips expatiated for a page or so, in her big, forceful
handwriting, on Nancy's beauty, sweetness, and charm.

"A fine, feminine creature, my dear Miss Fletcher. A girl I am proud to
refer to as one of mine; a girl to carry on the traditions of such a
family as yours--a lovely, young American woman!"

This was what brought the smile, but as Doris turned over the sheet the
smile departed; a grave expression took its place.

"You and I are progressive women," so the new theme began; "we know the
game of life. We know that where we once played straight whist we now
play bridge, but we are fully aware that the fundamentals are the same.

"And now I must explain myself. For a young girl with the prospects that
Joan has her mental equipment is a handicap rather than an asset. She
does everything too well--except the drudgery of the class room, she has
managed to endure that, and with credit, but everything else she
accomplishes with distinction. She lacks utterly any suggestion of
amateurishness!

"I hope you will understand. This would be splendid if she, like Sylvia
Reed, for instance, had to look to her wits to solve her life problems;
but it will distract her along the path of obvious demands.

"She, I repeat, does everything too well. She dances with inspiration;
nothing less. She sings with spirit and originality; she acts almost
unbelievably well and she wins, without effort, the admiration and
affection of all with whom she comes in contact. I speak thus openly and
intimately to you, Miss Fletcher, because, frankly, Joan puzzles me--she
always has."

The le