n returned.

"Oh! of course, she'd let you--go. That's Aunt Dorrie's idea of justice.
But we have no right to impose on it. People may be willing to suffer,
but that's no excuse for making them suffer." Nancy did battle with the
fear that was in her--her fear that Joan might escape her, and now, as
in the old days, Nancy felt that play lost its keen zest when Joan
withdrew.

Joan made no reply. She looked very young with the sunlight flooding
over her. Her eyes wide apart, her short upper lip and firm, little
round chin were almost childlike when in repose, and her heavy hair rose
and fell in charming curves as the breeze stirred it.

"Joan, what do you want to do, really?" Nancy dropped from her perch
beside Joan and came close, leaning against the swinging feet as if to
stay their restlessness.

"Oh! I don't know--but something real; something like a beginning, not
just a carrying on. I want to dig out of me what is in me
and--and--offer it for sale!" Joan leaned back perilously and laughed at
her own folly and Nancy's shocked face.

"Of course, I may not have anything anybody wants," she went on, "but
I'll never be able to settle down and be comfy until I _know_. Having a
rich somebody behind you is--is--the limit!" she flung out, defiantly.

"I don't know what you mean, Joan." Nancy was aghast. The fear within
her was taking shape; it was like a shrouded figure looming up ready to
cast off its disguise.

"Of course you don't, you blessed little snow-child!"--the laugh struck
rudely on Nancy's discomfort--"why should you; why should any one in
this--this factory where we've all been cut in the same shape? We're all
going to be let out of here to--to be married! They've never taken me
in."

"Oh, Joan!" Nancy looked about nervously. Of course every girl had this
ideal in her brain, but she was not supposed to express it--except
vicariously in the charm-lure.

"It's all right, this marrying," Joan went calmly on. "I want to myself,
some day, it's splendid and all that--but something in me wants to fly
about alone first."

"You're silly, Joan."

"I suppose I am, snow-child. I suppose I'll get frightfully snubbed some
day and come back glad enough to trot along with the rest--but oh! it
must be sublime to have the chance a boy has. He can have
everything--even the try if he _is_ rich--and then he knows what he's
worth. Why, Nancy, I am going to say something awful now--so hold close.
I want to know what my