came on.

The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned
expectantly, and then Joan entered!

Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends--they
were all her friends--with that sweet confidence and understanding of
the true artist. The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might have
proved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments.

She stood at ease while the first notes were played--she appeared
suddenly detached, and then she sang.

It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking:

"I'll sail upon the Dog-star,
I'll sail upon the Dog-star,
And then pursue the morning
And then pursue, and then pursue the morning.

"I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,
I'll chase the moon, till it be noon,
But I'll make her leave her horning.

"I'll climb the frosty mountain,
I'll climb the frosty mountain,
And there I'll coin the weather.

"I'll tear the rainbow from the sky
And tie both ends together."

The ringing girlish voice rose high and true and clear.

"Bravo!" cried a man's voice and then:

"And she'll do it, too!"

It was at this point that Martin took Doris from the room.

In the quiet of the deserted piazza Doris looked up at Martin through
tears.

"Joan is feeling her oats." Martin walked to and fro; he had been more
moved by the song than he cared to confess.

"The darling!" Doris whispered. Then: "Can't you see what Miss Phillips
meant, Davey? The child is talented--she shall never be held back.
Wealth can be as cruel and crippling as poverty. Be prepared, David, I
mean to let Joan--free."

Martin came close and sat down.

"Go easy, Doris," he cautioned, then asked: "And how about Nancy?"

"David, I'm going to tell Nancy, after we come home from Europe--not
all, of course, but enough to make her understand--about me! I cannot
quite explain, but I am sure I am right in my decision. Nancy, indeed
all of us, will, sooner or later, have to let Joan go! I saw that
clearly as she sang. I must fill Nancy's life and she must make up to me
what I am about to lose. David, is this what mothers feel?"

"Some of them, Doris. The best of them. I'm glad to see you game."

"Oh! yes. I'm glad, too--for Joan's sake. I will be giving Nancy her
best and surest happiness--with me, but not Joan. And so, David, Joan
must not have the slightest inkling--she must go, when her time comes,