laces became visualized
as Joan spoke. Sylvia Reed with her strong, purposeful face and eyes of
a young prophet; the new nest of genius where the brave creature,
believing in herself, waited for another in whom she trusted and for
whom she held a deep-founded affection. Doris felt her way in
silence--relinquishing, loving, fearing, but never blinded. She knew the
moment's pain of disappointment caused by the realization that with all
her love and riches she had not, for the time being, anything to offer
this untried soul that could lure it from its vision.

Presently she heard herself speaking as if a third person were in the
room:

"If this means anything it means that it must be met in the spirit with
which Sylvia is meeting it. She has risked all; is willing to pay the
price--are you?"

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."

"You know, darling, that it would be easier for me to lavish everything
on you?"

"Yes, Aunt Dorrie."

"You understand that if I leave you free to meet this chance in its only
true way--the hard, struggling way--it is not because I desire to sicken
you of it and so regain you for Nancy and me?"

"Oh! yes, Aunt Dorrie, I do understand that."

"I'm sure you do, child, or you would not be here. And so I set you
free, little Joan, I wish you luck and success, but if you find the
chance is not your chance, my darling, will you come as frankly to me as
you have come to-night?"

"Yes--yes, Aunt Dorrie, and you are--well--there is no word for you, but
I feel as if you were my mother and I'd just--found you! You'll never
seem quite the same, Aunt Dorrie--though that always seemed good enough.
Why"--And here Joan slipped to her feet and danced lightly in the sunny
room tossing her hair and swaying gracefully--"why, I'm free to fail
even if I must--fail or succeed--and you understand and love me and
don't begrudge me my freedom--you are setting me free and not even
disapproving."

The dance in that sanctuary did not seem incongruous; Doris watched the
motion as she might a figment loose in the sunlight. It was as much a
prayer of thanks as any ever uttered in the peaceful place.

CHAPTER X

"_Hopes and disappointments, and much need of philosophy._"

A week later Joan started for New York, a closely packed suitcase in her
hand, a closely packed trunk in the baggage car ahead, and some hurting
memories to bear her company on the way.

Memories of Nancy's tears.

How Nancy could cry--once the barri