"But it's getting on my nerves, Nan. It's ominous. Maybe there is
a--a--tragedy in our young lives"--Joan dramatically set her words into
comedy--"a dark past. How I would adore that!"

"I would loathe it!" Nancy murmured, "and there couldn't be. I know
there is only a deep sadness. I wouldn't hurt Aunt Dorrie by--by
unearthing it."

"Nan," here Joan pointed her finger, "do you know a blessed thing about
your father? I don't!"

Nancy flushed, but made no reply.

"There's where the secret lies--I feel it in my blood!" Joan shuddered
and Nancy laughed. "It didn't seem to matter until _now_, but, Nan,
we're women at last!"

"Of course," Nancy spoke, "I have thought of that. The best families
have such things in them--but they don't talk about them. Now that we
are women we must act like women--such women as Aunt Dorrie."

"Nan, you're a snob. A pitiful, beautiful little snob!" Joan wafted a
kiss. "Your prettiness saves you. If you had a turned-up nose you'd be
an abomination."

"You have no right to call me a snob, Joan!" Nancy's fair face flushed.

"Did I call you a snob, Nan, dear?"

"Yes, you did. It's not being a snob to be true to oneself." Nancy put
up her defences.

"I should say not," Joan agreed, but she laughed.

"Just think of all that Aunt Dorrie represents!" Nancy went on. "She's
all that her father and her grandfather----"

"And her grandmothers," Joan broke in, "made her! Just think of it! And
you and I must carry on the tradition--at least _you_ must--I'm afraid
I'll have to be a quitter. It makes me too hot."

"You'll never be a quitter, you splendid Joan!" Nancy turned her face to
Joan---- the old love had grown with the years, "You _are_ splendid,
Joan--everyone adores you."

But Joan did not seem to hear. Suddenly she said:

"Now do you know, Nan, I hate to go across the ocean this summer. It
seems such a waste of time. I am eager to begin."

"Begin what, Joan?"

"Begin to live."

"You funny Joan, what have you been doing since you were born?"

"Waking up, Nan, and stretching and learning to stand alone. I'm ready
now to--to walk. I dare say I'll wobble, but--I don't care--I want to
begin."

A sense of danger filled Nancy--she often felt afraid of Joan, or _for_
Joan, she was not sure which it was.

"I think you'll do nothing that will trouble and disappoint Aunt
Dorrie," she said, using the weapon of the weak.

"I think Aunt Dorrie would want me to--to live my life," Joa